Authors: Matthew Dunn
E
llie Hallowes introduced herself to the security guards in the foyer of CIA headquarters in Langley and scrutinized her surroundings, because her deep-cover role made her feel exposed within the prominent high temple of espionage. “You should have me down for a pass. Director Parker’s expecting me.”
The guard made a phone call, got her to sign paperwork, and gave her an electronic swipe card that had the inscription
TEMPORARY
. “Wait here. Someone’s coming to get you.”
That someone arrived five minutes later, all smiles and handshakes. Ellie had no idea who he was, and didn’t care.
“Come with me. Been a while since you were here, right?”
“A while. Yes.”
“Nothing’s changed.” The man’s smile broadened. “Coffee’s still lousy.”
Just like the lame jokes. She followed him through the security gates, keeping her gaze low while desperately hoping she didn’t bump into someone who might shout out something like, “Ellie Hallowes, as I live and breathe!”
But no one took any notice of her as she rode an elevator and was guided along corridors that contained rooms with initials and number codes designating which teams they belonged to. She wondered if hostile intelligence agencies knew what these codes meant, because everyone in Langley did, and that meant there’d be a good chance someone had leaked their meaning. Langley was anything but deep cover—too many people, only one set of loose lips needed to damage the place. That said, there was a part of Langley that was a steel-plated fortress of secrecy.
She was ushered into a spacious room containing a large desk, computer, conference table and chairs, walls containing framed photos of Presidents Obama, Bush junior, Clinton, and Bush senior, and windows overlooking part of Langley’s manicured grounds. Ed Parker stood from behind his desk, walked to her, and shook her hand. “Great to see you in one piece, Ellie. That was a shitty deal in Norway.”
Senator Jellicoe didn’t get up, smile, or offer any greeting. He just stared at her from his seat at the conference table.
Parker pulled out a chair at the table and gestured toward it. “Can we get you anything?”
“No.” Ellie sat, wishing she could be a few feet farther away from Jellicoe—actually, wishing she weren’t in the same room as him.
Jellicoe kept his eyes on her. The scent of his pungent cologne was mixed with sweat.
Parker sat next to her so that they were both opposite Jellicoe. Ellie knew it was Parker’s way of saying that he was on her side. It was bullshit.
Parker asked, “Did Welfare visit you at your hotel?”
Ellie nodded.
“Much use?”
“I hadn’t realized the Agency’s Welfare Department had gone all amateur psychologist. Seems they want everyone to have PTSD so that they can sit down, have a chat, and share the horrors. All that kind of stuff. Not much use when life’s a little more complicated than that. I preferred it when they came over with a bag of groceries and a bottle of Scotch.”
Parker laughed. “Me too. Sorry. I just wanted them to check you were okay during your week off. Before you came here.”
“Make sure I wasn’t losing my mind? Put me on suicide watch?”
“Just check you were okay.”
“I’m fine, and I’m here. Reporting for duty.
Sir
.”
Jellicoe took out a pink silk handkerchief and began twining it around his flabby fingers. “You being sarcastic, girl?”
She glanced at Parker. “Is the senator cleared to speak to me?”
Parker nodded.
“About specifics? Norway?”
“He is.”
Jellicoe wrapped the handkerchief tight around a finger. “What do you think happened in Norway?”
“Russians killed my asset and tried to kill me.”
“How do you know they were Russians?”
“They spoke Russian, looked Russian, and after all, we had advance intel that Herald was under threat from the Russians. You telling me I got it wrong?”
“No. Just wanted to hear what you thought happened.”
“Well, that’s it in a nutshell.”
“Not quite.”
Ellie was silent.
“More to it than that.”
Ellie held Jellicoe’s gaze.
“You did the right thing telling Sheridan what Cochrane had done.” Jellicoe yanked hard on the scarf as if he was attempting to strangle his finger. “But I want to know what Cochrane then told you.”
She shrugged. “He said that a senior Russian spy had ordered the hit; that Cochrane had disobeyed Agency orders by killing his men; and that he wasn’t going to comply with Sheridan’s instruction to give himself up to the U.S. or U.K. embassies in Oslo. Then he left.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
Ellie darted a look of incredulity at Parker before returning her attention to Jellicoe. “Should I have fought him? Not that easy, given I’m just”—she smiled—“a
girl
.” Her smile vanished. “But I did tell him to comply with Sheridan’s orders. And just so you know that I’m giving you a balanced account, I also thanked him for saving my life.”
Parker responded, “That’s understandable.”
Jellicoe removed the handkerchief from his fingers and patted his jowls. “You curious as to why we had orders in place for Cochrane not to open fire on the Russian spy and his team?”
“Of course I’m damn curious! Those orders would have had me dead! Are you going to tell me what they’re about?”
“Nope.”
“Thought not.”
“Cochrane give the Russian spy or our orders a name?”
Antaeus. Ferryman.
“No,” Ellie lied.
“Say where he was going?”
Ellie had predicted this question, and days ago had decided on an answer that she thought the Agency might swallow. “He seemed confused. I asked him what he’d do, and he’d told me that he had to go someplace safe. My guess is he’s laying low for the time being, trying to decide what to do. Probably Europe or Middle East. But I could be wrong. Maybe he’s trying to get as far away from Norway and the States as he can. Don’t blame him.”
“You feel compassion toward Cochrane?”
“A bit. Yes.”
“Damsel in distress rescued by knight in shining armor?”
Regardless of the events in Norway, Ellie hated the idea of being viewed as a damsel in distress. Then again, Will Cochrane was the first man to have saved her life. She recalled the way he gave her Herald’s coat. The memory made her feel wanted, even though the sensation seemed strange. She feigned annoyance. “I told him to give himself up and that in return I’d put in a good word for him.”
“You’d take a polygraph test so that we can check your version of events?”
“Sure.” Ellie meant what she’d said. Polygraph tests were wholly unreliable and she’d proven in the past that she could easily manipulate them. “I can do it today if you like.”
“We’ll let you know.”
Ellie drummed her fingers. This was the moment she’d been leading up to. “No denying, at first I was major league pissed that you were willing to sacrifice me for something I’m not cleared to know about. But I’ve had a week to get my thinking straight. I get it. Doesn’t mean I like it, but hey, it’s a game I’ve played as well. What bothers me now is why Herald was killed and why a senior Russian spy turned up in person to oversee it being done.”
“Could be any number of reasons.”
“Maybe. But seems to me this Russian spy’s very important to you, because you wanted him kept alive. Supposing Herald had wanted to meet me because he knew something about the spy, something that could have threatened the spy’s interests, perhaps something that could have threatened
your
interests.”
“Doesn’t matter now, because your asset’s dead.”
Ellie nodded. “That’s fine, as long as he’s taken his secret to his grave.”
“Herald didn’t say anything to you before you were attacked?”
Something like, All the Agency’s biggest secrets are being leaked to Russia by a high-ranking mole.
Ellie lied. “Nothing important. We were just catching up, pleasantries, small talk, warming up to the reason he wanted to meet me. I always let him do that; he hated being rushed into business. Then the Russian operatives kicked down the door.”
Jellicoe and Parker were silent as they momentarily glanced at each other.
Ellie asked Parker, “Whatever interests you have in the senior Russian spy, is it important stuff? Stuff that I’d buy into?”
“Ellie, I can’t—”
“And you don’t have to. I just need to know if it’s something good.”
Parker looked at Jellicoe, who hesitated before giving the slightest of nods. “It’s
very
important. The president takes a personal interest.”
“Then that’s all I need to know. What plans do you have for me?”
Parker seemed relieved with the question. “I was thinking a few more weeks’ leave, followed by putting you back in deep cover. Another name, change of dress and hair, lose or gain a bit of weight, different continent, usual drill.”
Back to a life that wasn’t her life.
Ellie nodded. “I’m not very good at twiddling my thumbs, doing nothing. Why don’t you make use of me during the next few weeks? Keep me in Langley before I go back out into the field.”
“Doing what?”
“I know my asset inside out. I can read through his files. See if there’s anything there that could suggest he might have put a fail-safe in place that could mean his secret information about the Russian spy
wasn’t
taken to the grave. Maybe something similar he’s done in the past. If I find something, I just present it to you and leave you to decide what to do. Job done.”
Ellie expected to find absolutely zero of interest in her asset’s files, but that wasn’t relevant. Having a pass to camp in Langley was.
Jellicoe asked Parker, “She security cleared to read those files?”
Parker snapped, “She was his case officer, for God’s sake.” He composed himself. “Sorry, Mr. Jellicoe. Yes, of course she is.”
Jellicoe eyed Ellie. “You find something, you bring it to us and shut the door on your way out. But I warn you: start looking in places you shouldn’t and it’ll trigger an automatic red flag. Our security boys will be all over you. It won’t be pleasant.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
Parker went to his desk and made an internal call. “Get Miss Hallowes a room on the third floor and extend her pass to three weeks. I’ll give you a list of her security clearances”—he looked at Ellie—“together with a list of what she’s
not
allowed to read. She’s ready to go.”
A few minutes later, Ellie was escorted out of the room by the man who’d met her in the lobby.
After the door had shut behind her, Jellicoe stuffed his handkerchief into his expensive suit and asked, “You trust her?”
“No reason to think otherwise.”
Jellicoe shook his head and said with contempt, “You’d never have made director if it weren’t for Ferryman. You’re too damn naive.”
A
s soon as Will spotted the road, he removed and secreted his goggles and balaclava, grimaced as icy rain struck his face like needles, shoved his hands into his jacket, and adopted the posture of a man who was severely pissed that his car had broken down north of here and had to walk to the nearest civilization to get help.
He stepped onto the road and headed south, his only hope being that a passerby would stop, take pity on him, and drive him to someplace warm. No one would fail to spot him—the road was deserted and quite flat, either side of it was open snow-covered countryside. Plus, though the route was remote, there was no doubt that vehicles had recently driven along it, since the road had recently been plowed. Didn’t mean anyone would stop, though; they might just err on the side of caution and keep driving in case he was a serial killer.
Did Nova Scotia have serial killers who’d be stupid enough to chance their luck in these conditions and with very few victims around? Will had no idea; nor did he have much experience of attempting to hitch a ride. He decided that if he heard a vehicle, he wouldn’t stick out his thumb. Instead, he’d just keep walking while looking as pathetic as possible. Hopefully that would make him look less likely to be a killer who was desperate to get inside someone’s vehicle. Perhaps the passerby would think through options as he continued onward, decide that the walker wasn’t a threat, then stop and back up.
Not that Will wasn’t a threat. As well as the Russian pistol he was carrying, the cache had given him another handgun and spare ammunition, army food rations that would feed him for a few days, two thousand Canadian dollars, a lockpick set, and a military knife, all hidden in his jacket. There had been other stuff in the cache that would have been extremely useful for a man going to war, but too conspicuous for someone who just wanted to blend in. So he’d left the assault rifles and most of the other military supplies behind. Even though there was every possibility that he
was
a man going to war.
Most likely a futile war.
One that would see him being mowed down the moment he stuck his head out of the trenches.
His stomach was cramping, partly because he was tired and hungry, and partly because he was tense. Not knowing what lay ahead was making things worse, and it was an unusual sensation because secret agents are trained to be in control of everything around them, even when things go wrong. But this was different because he was no longer an agent, and had no support and safety net.
All of this was new to him. Not even the Spartan training program could have prepared him for what it was like to be a homeless criminal on the run in a world full of people who wanted him dead.
Part of his brain was telling him to move into the countryside, remove his outer clothing, sit down, and wait for the elements to take away the pain by killing him. But he kept going, each step taking him closer to his destination.
It would have been reasonable for anyone watching the four people walking briskly across the concourse of the Arrivals section of Washington Dulles Airport to assume that they were businessmen in their early thirties who broke up their high-pressure days with intensive cardiovascular workouts. Further, the observer might have noticed their casual, confident smiles, which, together with the expensive-looking overcoats, suits, and suitcases, suggested they were wealthy playboys who exuded the joie de vivre that is often prevalent in the successful and rich. No doubt they’d inherited good genes—high cheekbones, lean and athletic builds, above-average height, straight hair—but money had made them look even better. Only expensive dental work could have gotten their teeth that white and straight; professional stylists had spent a lot of time getting their short hair into cuts that made them dashing, charming, and full of sex appeal; and their lightly tanned Caucasian faces were marble smooth. These, the observer might have concluded, were Forbes 400 men who would look right at home on the front cover of
Esquire
or
GQ
.
The observer would have been wrong.
Because the men were assassins.
Code names Scott, Shackleton, Oates, Amundsen.
Antaeus’s best.
Scott and Oates were English, both ex–Special Air Service; Shackleton was Irish, formerly of the counterterrorism Army Ranger Wing; and Amundsen was a Norwegian whose career included ten years in Norway’s premier maritime special forces unit, Marinejegerkommandoen. None of them had spent one minute of their adult life sitting behind a desk studying profit-and-loss spreadsheets, investment portfolios, or share-price fluctuations. But that’s not to say that they couldn’t talk the talk of businessmen. If taken to one side by airport security and questioned, all of them could speak effortlessly about the nuances of their faux businesses. It was their usual cover for getting in and out of countries, though they were equally adept at covertly crossing borders from sea, air, or land.
But today, they were merely asked a few perfunctory questions at passport control, then allowed to proceed to X-ray machines where their luggage was scanned and deemed to contain absolutely nothing of concern.
The men would never risk bringing anything compromising through airport security, and today was no exception. Plus, there was no need. A local asset would be supplying them the weapons to kill their target.