Authors: Matthew Dunn
W
ind and ice rushed into the house as Ulana opened the door, and she had to use all of her body weight to resecure the entrance once she was inside the kitchen. She removed her ski goggles, balaclava, and gloves, jumped up and down to shake the snow off her clothes, placed her bare hands around the kettle, and shuddered as the warmth aided her fingers’ circulation.
From the other side of the kitchen, Will said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not putting a bullet in my brain, cutting my body into pieces, and scattering my remains in Greenland.”
Ulana smiled. “It took a lot of my willpower not to do that.”
“What changed your mind?”
Ulana folded her arms and looked at him. “You knew what we were doing here and in Canada, and yet you never told anyone.”
“It suited me not to.”
“Even so, you could have sold us out at any time.”
“Yes.”
She drummed fingers against the wall, thinking. “I’m going to take you to Canada.”
Though he was hugely relieved, this was the last thing he’d expected Ulana to say. “Of course, I’m delighted you said that. But why would you do it?”
Ulana answered quietly, “Every month I fly my guys into Canada. Fat generals in Moscow tell us it’s important work, but we’re not stupid. It’s all a load of crap. And providing we don’t freeze to death first, doing crap work doesn’t change the fact that if we get caught, it’s life imprisonment in a high-security Canadian prison after the Mounties have interrogated us.” She hesitated, then said, “Of course, we’d try to escape before that happened, though things rarely go as planned.” Her voice trailed. “I don’t envy you.”
Will kept his mouth shut.
“I spent most of last night trying to decide why I wanted to help you. In the end it came down to one thing—people like you and I have worked for so long in the field, it no longer seems relevant that we’re Russian, American, or British; GRU, CIA, or MI6. Because we’re not really any of those things, are we?”
“No.”
“Instead, we’re just weird people doing weird things in weird places, and all the while we rarely have a clue if what we’re doing is of any use to anyone. And when we go home we . . .”
“Aren’t like the people around us.”
Ulana nodded. “I’m helping you because you know what it’s like to be me. And maybe one day you can return the favor and help me.”
“I’d like that.” He was about to elaborate.
But Ulana held up her hand. “Kicking up out there. It’ll be a very bumpy crossing.”
“You tell me if it’s safe to fly.”
“It’s never safe to fly. Not in these little birds. I think all that first-class 747 spy travel has made you a bit naive.”
Will recalled that the last time he’d been in a small airplane it had been torn apart during an emergency crash landing, moments before a sniper shot him and all of his men.
Ulana tossed him a small document.
An American passport.
He turned to the page containing the photo. “You’re certain this won’t be missed?”
Ulana shrugged. “Out here stuff gets lost, or ruined by the weather. I’ll just request another one. Moscow won’t think twice about it. Just make sure you keep the beard.”
The alias passport belonged to one of her men, also bearded. While the photo and Will looked reasonably similar, he doubted there was a sufficient match in their looks to pass the scrutiny of a border crossing. But Will wasn’t intending to thrust it into the hands of a professional immigration officer; instead, if needed, it was solely for use in-country. “You didn’t need to pull out all the stops for me.”
“Dumping you midwinter in Canada with nothing but a passport to back you up is hardly
pulling out the stops
.” Ulana started preparing herself a hot drink. “You got yourself a woman yet?”
“No.”
“Occupational hazard, I guess.”
“You seemed to have cracked it with Filip,” he said.
“Not anymore. He couldn’t stand the wait.”
“I thought he knew the deal. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Obviously not.” She poured sugar into her tea. “Not much sense about today, is there?”
“None.”
Ulana burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve just realized that we’re finally putting this shit task to some use. Not quite what my superiors intended though.”
“You sure about the cache?”
“I’m sure. We have to replenish them with new supplies into Greenland, and often as not we have to chuck out the old stuff because it’s become damaged over time. Warn you though: not much in this cache.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Ulana studied him while frowning. “You sure you should be doing this? America? Things are about to get considerably worse for you.”
“It’s a better option than hiding out in a bar in central Africa, drinking shooters just to numb the boredom.”
Ulana sipped her tea. “You could come and live in Russia.”
“No thanks.”
“Why not?”
Will chuckled. “Where do I begin to answer that?”
“At the end.”
“My end wouldn’t be living in a pretty dacha. It would be a Russian president one day realizing that he could hand me over to the West in return for big favors.”
“True. By the way, you were lucky to reach us when you did. We’re being pulled out in a few weeks—back to Moscow; team change over.”
“What are you going to do?”
Ulana beamed. “I’m adopting a little Russian boy. All the paperwork’s been approved.”
“Wow! That’s wonderful news.” Instinctively, Will wanted to step forward and embrace her, but stopped himself doing so because Ulana wasn’t the cuddly type. Still, he felt genuinely pleased for her, his smile matching her own. “Are you staying in GRU?”
“Have to. Our economy’s still fucked and who else would want someone who can fly planes under the radar, sit in ice holes for days on end while looking through binos, and shoot a man in the head from a distance of over one thousand yards?”
“Oh, I can think of quite a few
employers
who’d jump at the chance of having someone like you on board.”
Criminal bosses, among others.
“Seen too many of my pals going down that path. Most of them are in prison or dead. No, I’ll apply for a cushy training job in GRU. It’ll keep me in Moscow; let me be a mom.” She checked her watch. “Hope you don’t get airsick, because I’m going to have to fly low. Weather aside, this is a risky flight—I’m taking you to Nova Scotia. It’s the farthest south we operate and there’s a far greater risk of compromise. But dropping you in Newfoundland, Labrador, or anywhere farther north would be a death sentence.”
Will was relieved. From the Maritime province of Nova Scotia, he could travel northwest to New Brunswick and then cross the border into Maine.
“You got assets in country who’re going to help you travel south?”
“None that I can use.”
“You got a plan though, yeah?”
“Actually, no.”
“Jesus.”
Will shrugged. “Having a plan is too risky on U.S. soil. I’ve got to be unpredictable.”
“Or stupid. Either way, we leave in sixty minutes. I suggest you use that time”—she nodded toward her laptop—“to research Nova Scotia and its surroundings.”
“Who’s coming with us?”
“No one else. I can’t afford to have them killed.”
The sound of the Islander plane’s engine and propellers was nearly drowned out by the wind as Will forced his way through its icy blast toward the stationary craft. Ulana was in the cockpit, making a final check of her instrument panel. Behind her were two passenger seats, both empty. He entered the plane, slammed the door shut, and was grateful for the warmth inside the tiny compartment.
Though she was only three feet in front of him, Will had to shout to be heard. “When does the cabin crew bring champagne and canapés?”
While continuing her checks, Ulana replied, “Because you’re first class, seat 1A, that’s already been taken care of. Look next to you.”
Will glanced down and saw wrapped sandwiches and a thermos flask that no doubt contained sickly sweet tea. “Splendid. In-flight entertainment?”
“That’ll be me. Buckle up.” The Islander began taxiing along the track. “If we go down anywhere over the strait, better to shoot yourself before we hit water. End of safety announcement.”
Retired major Dickie Mountjoy looked at the
Daily Telegraph
’s photograph of Will Cochrane. The seventy-one-year-old desperately wanted to believe that the man in the image merely bore an uncanny resemblance to his Southwark neighbor, who lived in the West Square apartment block’s third floor, above him. Trouble was, Will Cochrane was mentioned by name eight times in the article.
His intercom rang, meaning someone was at the communal front door of the two-hundred-year-old converted residence. Briefly, he wondered if Phoebe or David would answer, though he knew from experience that his two neighbors rarely did. Right now, Phoebe was probably lying on her couch, nursing a hangover after an evening out watching a middleweight boxing match while hoping to get lucky with some disreputable ruffian; and recently divorced David was quite possibly continuing to cook his way through a famous French chef’s collected recipes while listening to Dixieland jazz on full volume.
Anyway, need a job done, ask a soldier. Dickie pushed himself up out of his armchair and marched to his intercom. “Yes?”
A man answered. “Metropolitan Police.”
“Good for you. I’m ex–Coldstream Guards. Now we know each other’s vocations, what do you want?”
The police officer hesitated before asking, “Can we come in?”
Dickie was ramrod straight, his clothes pressed to the standard of parade grounds, and asked in the clipped tone favored by British army officers, “Did I forget to pay my library fine?”
“This isn’t about you.”
“Then why are you speaking to me, sunshine?”
“We just need someone in this house to let us in.”
“We? You come mob handed? Want to bang some heads together?”
“There’s just two of us.”
“Maybe you want to plant some evidence. Fit me up, then take me away in the blues and twos.”
“Blues and twos?”
“How long you been in the force?”
“We call it service these days.”
“My school dinner ladies used to do service. You a dinner lady?”
The officer sounded exasperated when he replied, “No. I’ve been in the . . . force for fifteen years; my colleague six years.”
“Twenty-one years combined. Same length of time, I fought in four conflicts and stood in front of Her Majesty thirty-seven times. You know what Guardsmen think of coppers?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Damn right, young man. We think you’re undisciplined bullies who’d never have cut the mustard in the army.”
“Please. Just let us in. It’s not about you. It’s about Will Cochrane.”
Dickie glanced at the
Telegraph
. Beyond it, lights from his small Christmas tree flickered over his neighbor’s image. It added a surreal festive flavor to the spread. “Very well then. Just make sure you don’t steal anything.” He pressed the intercom’s buzzer.
Will looked out of the small airplane’s window and saw Greenland’s coast move past and be replaced by an inhospitable gray sea. The Davis Strait. The plane shook from the wind as it flew a mere two hundred yards above the water, but Ulana expertly turned it in new directions to work with the weather rather than let the icy blast toss the aircraft onto its back like a discarded toy. As he watched her motionless head, he had no doubt that she’d be able to navigate her way through parenthood with equal skill.
He recalled a day during the Spartan Program when he had received a briefing from two surviving members of the Special Operations Executive, both in their eighties. During World War II, one had been a Lysander pilot, the other an agent who’d helped rally resistance in Holland and France. The pilot had described how he’d needed to fly the agent across the Channel and land on tiny strips. His biggest fear hadn’t been being spotted and attacked by the Luftwaffe, but rather making an error and flying into the sea. The agent had concurred, saying that he was always relieved when they safely landed, even though it was in a place of extreme danger, and that he felt utterly useless during those flights.
Right now, Will knew how that felt.
If Ulana made a misjudgment, there was absolutely nothing he could do.
He was willing her to reach Canada and touch down successfully.
Detective Superintendent Barclay handed his police ID to Dickie and watched the widower scrutinize it before handing it back to the officer.
“Special Branch?”
Barclay nodded. “Based in Scotland Yard.” He gestured to his uniformed colleague. “This is Police Constable Evans. He works in Southwark Station. I thought it best to bring along a local friendly face.”
Dickie’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Evans. “Friendly face? Never seen you before. Not surprising. These days, you lot spend all your time driving around thinking you’re in some American cop flick. Forgot you got legs. Tell you what though: pop over some time for a cup of tea so we can get to know each other. I can teach you how to properly iron your uniform. You look like a bag of shit tied up in the middle.”
Barclay sighed. “It would be most helpful if you had a spare key to Mr. Cochrane’s flat.”
“Why? Thought you liked kicking doors down.”
“We’d rather not.”
“Scared he might be in there and get a bit peeved if you damage his property?”
“Is he in there?”
“Haven’t seen him for weeks.”
“That’s what we thought. But we would like a look inside his apartment. We do need to find him.”
“Think he’s left a holiday brochure lying around, telling you exactly where he’s popped off to?” Dickie was standing to attention, his arms locked tight against his sides, and felt every bit as if he were dressing down a bad recruit on the parade ground in Wellington Barracks. “Don’t have a spare, but Phoebe might. Come with me.” He eyed Evans. “You single?”
The police constable nodded.
“God help you.”