Authors: Matthew Dunn
A
listair and Patrick knew for a fact that if they stood side by side they’d be the exact same width as Bo Haupman, because they were standing next to each other and were in front of the FBI director in Marsha Gage’s ops room.
As usual, Alistair was immaculately dressed, though on this occasion he’d opted to turn up wearing a three-piece tweed suit that, together with his slicked-back blond hair and good cheekbones, made the MI6 controller look like an early-twentieth-century royal who’d decided that a weekend in the Scottish Highlands was in order.
It was a deliberate look—one that played up to the English gentleman stereotype but also unsettled the established norm of bland attire within the FBI HQ.
Patrick’s image was also chosen with care. His suit jacket was off, slung over his shoulder and held in place by one sinewy finger; his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. The CIA officer looked like he was about to administer rough justice to a terrorist in a top-secret Agency facility in Southeast Asia.
Haupman gestured toward Marsha. “This is Marsha Gage. She’s running things.”
Alistair stepped forward, smiled, and held out his hand. “Delighted to meet you, young lady.”
Marsha placed her hand in his and didn’t know what to think when Alistair lifted it and kissed the back of her hand. “Ain’t been young for a while, sir, nor called a lady for as long as I can remember.” She turned to Patrick.
No kiss from him, instead a firm handshake, a wink, and the comment, “Bet you’re delighted that you got three dinosaurs assigned to your team.”
Haupman said to Marsha, “Let me know what you need.” He smiled. “And don’t let these spooks do their Jedi mind games on you.”
After Haupman left the ops room, Marsha placed her hands on her hips and nodded toward two desks that were facing each other in the middle of the room. “These are yours. Sheridan’s desk is over there, and I hope you appreciate that I didn’t sit you next to him. Thankfully, he’s not here right now.”
Alistair rubbed his hands and faked enthusiasm. “Wonderful. So what do you want us to do?”
Marsha frowned. “Help.”
“To do what?”
“Catch your boy.”
Patrick asked, “How long we gotta be here playing cops and robbers?”
“Until the robber’s captured.”
Alistair glanced at Patrick with a faint smile on his face before returning his attention to Marsha. “Considering that we could be here for a while, can we request some things?”
Marsha shrugged. “Sure. Whatever equipment or data you need.”
“Excellent.”
Both men whipped out pens and paper and wrote lists. They handed the sheets to Marsha.
Marsha tried to keep her expression neutral as she read the notes, though she desperately wanted to smile. She looked at the two men before her, spies who she’d been advised had been two of the more powerful individuals in Western intelligence, before they’d recently had their horns removed. But now they just seemed to be a joke, particularly the crazy Englishman. “Really?”
Patrick nodded. “You did say anything.”
Alistair added, “When you get to our time of life, it’s the little things that keep us going.”
She looked at the lists again.
Patrick wanted a chess set, De’Longhi espresso machine, menus of the best Italian and Indian delivery services in D.C., a picture of a nice sunset or something like that to keep him calm, a once-daily visit from a sports masseur who could loosen the knots in his upper back, a bottle of single-malt whiskey and two cut-glass tumblers, and a soundproofed cubicle to put around shitty Sheridan.
Alistair had requested a wine refrigerator, a box of Cuban cigars and a humidor, matinee tickets for the National Theatre in case there was a lull of activity in the manhunt, Darjeeling tea and a high-quality tea set, and a catapult with a range of no less than half the length of this room with pellets that would sting but not cause serious injury.
Marsha sighed. “I’ll get you
some
of these things.”
“Splendid.” Alistair walked over to Marsha’s map of the world. “I had one of these on my wall when I was a boy at Eton.”
“Eton?” Marsha joined him. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Alistair’s expression turned icy, and he lowered his voice so that only Marsha could hear him. “Jellicoe has to all intents and purposes issued a death sentence for Cochrane.”
“He was authorized to do so.”
“Not by me.”
“Seems others have a bigger say right now.”
“Quite so. You agree with them?”
“Not on a shoot-first, ask-questions-later basis.”
“You’d do it properly?”
“Yes. But make no mistake—if Cochrane wants a fight, we’ll fight back.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“Kinda not sure that it’s in my interest to have you two here, because . . .”
“We might hinder.”
Marsha nodded. “I get it, but it’s a fact that you’ve got a vested interest in keeping Cochrane underground.”
“Not anymore.”
Marsha frowned. “Why?”
Alistair did not answer, instead asked, “No sightings at all?”
Marsha followed his gaze at the map. “I threw in the wild-card option that he might be heading west. We had a possibility in Greenland, but that turned out to be nothing.”
“The world’s his oyster.” Alistair’s eyes rapidly took in everything he could see on the map. “You assure me that you’re going to do this professionally? That you’ll take him alive if you can?”
“Yes, but I can’t assure you that the mavericks think the same way.” She was referring to the CIA.
“I wouldn’t ask you to assure me on a matter that’s beyond your control.” He was deep in thought. “Jellicoe’s appearance at the Senate yesterday has changed everything.” He turned his gaze to Marsha. “Patrick and I will help you in every way we can, because we want
you
to find Cochrane, before the mavericks close in.”
Marsha momentarily wondered if Alistair was trying to flatter her, but rapidly decided not. The MI6 controller’s blue eyes were cold, piercing, and gleaming with intelligence. She’d been wrong about him. He most certainly
wasn’t
crazy or a joke. “Okay, I buy that.”
“I’m so glad you do.”
“But you’re putting a lot of faith in me. Cochrane could be anywhere.”
“Does that challenge daunt you?”
“No.”
“That’s what I’d heard. And I’d also heard that you were head of the Bureau task force hunting Cobalt.”
Marsha hesitated before asking, “Haupman told you that?”
Alistair nodded. “I told Director Haupman that you and Cochrane had Cobalt in common, because I’d tasked Mr. Cochrane to capture Cobalt.”
In a near whisper, Marsha asked, “Do you know why they pulled the plug on the Cobalt operation?”
“No. I asked, and was told to mind my own business. I kept asking, and kept getting told the same thing. I do know it was authorized by our prime minister and your president. But why they made that bizarre and downright dangerous decision is beyond me. By my calculation, Cobalt’s money has enabled terrorists to kill at least seven thousand people during the last five years.”
“Our most conservative assessment is three times that figure.”
“And you could be right.”
“I should still be looking for Cobalt.”
“I agree, but like it or not, we’ve both been given a different assignment.” Alistair took a step closer to the map and put on his reading glasses. “What’s motivating Cochrane right now?”
“To stay alive, evade capture, vanish, probably change identities and live out the rest of his life in a country without a U.S. extradition treaty.”
“Maybe. Come closer.”
Marsha took a step forward.
Alistair pointed at the map. “It was a good hunch to look west.”
“Just covering bases. It produced shit.”
Alistair turned toward her, and in a flash his icy demeanor was replaced with a look of utter charm. “My dear, you underestimate yourself that easily?”
“Hell, no.”
“That’s my girl.” His icy expression returned. “It’s quite possible that Mr. Cochrane has an altogether different motivation. Have you heard of a CIA operation code-named Ferryman?”
“Means nothing to me.”
“Nor us, but Ferryman protocols are responsible for putting my boy on the run. And he won’t like that one bit.” While keeping his eyes fixed on Marsha and without looking at the map, he stretched out his arm and placed a finger on a country. “Keep looking west, because I think Cochrane’s motivation is to find pure gold.”
Marsha looked at the map. Alistair’s finger was positioned in North America.
D
espite his best attempts not to, Will imagined that the noise of his boots crunching over ice was rather the sound of his vertebrae grinding together. Though it wasn’t carrying anything aside from the weight of Will’s muscular physique, his back was in agony from his efforts to get across a landscape that was equal parts beautiful, undulating, frozen, and terrifying. He’d trained and operated in places like this many times before, but this was different because he had no backup, no job, no identity, and no purpose beyond establishing why his former employers had turned on him.
For years he’d felt dislocated from the real world. But it was perverse compensation that the secret world had made up for that by embracing his flaws and unique talents. Now that that world no longer wanted him, he felt more alone than ever, and he could feel the weight of the planet crushing him with the heel of its boot.
At some point soon it would snap his spine in half, but not yet, because Will had to keep going to find the truth about Ferryman. Whatever the CIA operation was, there was no doubt that it had a vested interest in keeping Antaeus alive. Getting to the bottom of that reason had been plaguing Will ever since he’d walked away from the aftermath of the gunfight in Norway. He’d considered the possibility that Antaeus had been recruited by the CIA, but had immediately discounted that option because the spymaster would never betray his motherland or, more important, abandon his achieved ambition of being the West’s most formidable espionage opponent. Perhaps the Agency needed Antaeus alive as part of a bigger operation to disrupt Russia, one within which Antaeus wittingly or unwittingly played a crucial role.
No. That too just felt wrong. Antaeus couldn’t be manipulated by anyone, knowingly or otherwise, because he was always several steps ahead of even the brightest minds in Western intelligence. That left the bad-taste-in-the-mouth option. One that dovetailed with Herald’s declaration. Antaeus had recruited a high-ranking mole in the Agency, someone who was powerful enough to warn Antaeus off if danger was drawing close to him. Perhaps, given who was called in by the Agency duty officer when Will had the spymaster in his sights, that person was Charles Sheridan.
But that still didn’t explain what Ferryman was and why it was deemed so important that the U.S. and U.K. leaders had decided to hang Will Cochrane out to dry. Sheridan might be on Antaeus’s books, but it would be impossible for him alone to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, protect Antaeus, and put Will on the run. This was about something bigger than a mole, and that left an even nastier taste in Will’s mouth.
Nor did it make sense that Antaeus was alive. Three years ago, Will was given independent confirmation that Antaeus was found dead in a decimated vehicle, after Will’s bomb had gone off. The man he’d seen in Norway looked much older and more fragile than the one he’d watched getting into his car in a Moscow suburb. But there was absolutely no doubt it was the same man whose body had been blown to pieces.
Up to two weeks ago, everything had been so very different. He and Task Force S’s team had been scouring Europe, Africa, and South Asia for Cobalt. The objective was clear: kill him on sight. Will had support to conduct a mission of overriding importance. Then Alistair had called him and said that he was to abort the mission, effective immediately. Will had argued with Alistair, saying that he was sure they were closing in on the terrorist financier, but Will’s controller had won the argument when he told him that the British prime minister had ordered that all efforts to find Cobalt were to be ceased.
Everything had gone wrong since then. And nothing made sense. So Will continued walking, determined to get answers even though he now wondered whether he’d get to the United States to do so.
According to the trawler captain’s map, Will had traversed fifty-two miles of Greenland’s landmass. But such was the arduous nature of the journey that it had felt three times as long. The clarity of the air didn’t help—mountains that appeared to be only one mile away were actually fifteen miles distant. Reaching them seemed to take an age and made his mind cry out for variety.
Not for the first time during his trek, the thought of Christmas entered his rambling mind. After all, he was in Greenland, though that shouldn’t have brought Christmas to the forefront of his mind because Christmas hadn’t had any meaning to Will for as long as he could remember. Every year, he’d either been working overseas during the festive season or sitting at home on his own. Right now, either seemed preferable to what he was doing. Seeing Santa Claus’s alleged base of operations up close and personal in winter was frightening. It was a lonely place to be. Maybe that was apt.
Dean Martin’s “Let it Snow” began playing in a loop in his head. He didn’t know why, as snow was the very last thing he wanted, but he let the jingle continue while thinking about tree lights and warm log fires: anything that took his mind off the fact that it was getting dark, the headwind was becoming stronger, and if he collapsed to the ground it was unlikely anyone would find his body until spring.
He wondered what his neighbors at his new home in Southwark did at Christmas. Perhaps David the mortician invited art dealer Phoebe and retired major Dickie Mountjoy into his apartment for some home-cooked mince pie and a glass of mulled wine. Maybe David would extend the invitation to Will.
He’d like that.
Shards of ice hit him as he moved alongside the base of a mountain and encountered a stronger wind. Visibility was very poor now; no more clear air playing tricks on the mind, instead a dark sky and weather that was howling.
Then lights were ahead of him, exactly where they were supposed to be, illuminating SUVs, a house, a track, and a small Islander aircraft.
His destination.
But as he looked at the isolated settlement, part of him wondered if it was preferable to walk on by and take his chances with the elements.
The four people who operated out of the remote place had always said that they’d help him so long as he continued to keep his mouth shut about their work here and in Canada. The protocol to get in touch with them was a call from a specific pay phone in Greenland’s west coast town of Maniitsoq, a message placed in a dead-letter box in the same settlement, followed by one of the men clearing the DLB and leaving instructions there as to how to make human contact. Will had no ability to get all the way across the country to follow this protocol, so he had no choice other than to turn up uninvited at their home. That would make them ill at ease, and rather than help him, it was just as likely that they’d club him over the head, chop his body into small pieces, and scatter his remains in the surrounding countryside where they would be quickly eaten by wildlife.
He was sure all four of them were here, because the tiny Islander aircraft was next to the house. Were it not here, at least two of them would be out of the country, meaning he’d have a chance to negotiate with the remaining two and get their help or overpower them and flee if they refused to aid him. With all of them here, he might as well be walking into a lions’ den.
He wished he had other options, someone like the trawler captain who could hide him in a boat and sail him across the Davis Strait to Canada. But he didn’t, so he continued toward the lights while holding his pistol underneath his jacket.
Many times during his journey here, he’d considered different scenarios of approaching the house—waiting for one of the men to exit the place and approaching him while he was away from the others; placing a message through the front door or under the wipers of one of the SUVs and then retreating to a place of his choosing where he could watch them approach while he had his gun trained on them; maybe grabbing one of the men and holding a gun to his head while he negotiated terms with the others. But all these options were too aggressive, considering that he needed their trust and significant help. He had to put his life in their hands, even though the thought of doing so made him feel sick.
Nor was he willing to wait for two or more of the men to get in the Islander and fly off before he made contact with the remaining team. Waiting for the right time to approach the captain’s homestead in Norway had nearly killed him. He wasn’t going to put his body through that agony again.
Marsha Gage made a call to Assistant Commissioner Danny Labelle of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. After she told him about her role in hunting MI6 officer Will Cochrane and explained that she was already in contact with his compatriots in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, she said, “It’s a long shot, I know, but there is a chance he may be trying to reach the States by infiltrating the east coast of Canada. Can you let me know if you spot anything suspicious?”
Labelle laughed. “You have any idea how long our eastern coastline is? There aren’t enough Canadians, let alone Mounties, to cover that area.”
“I know. Just want you to let me know if anything lands in your lap that doesn’t feel right.”
“Okay. I’ll put out the word, plus speak to our Coast Guard. Why Canada?”
Marsha stared at her map of the world. “Like I say, a long shot. But I’m wondering if I missed Cochrane in Greenland, and if so whether he’s headed to the next nearest landmass. And that would be Canada.”
Will approached the house, knocked on the door, and took five quick steps back so that he was partly bathed in darkness. Other lights came on in the house, movement could be heard from inside, and the door was opened.
A person, silhouetted in the doorframe, said in Danish, “Yes?”
Will hesitated, then responded in the same language, “Thomas Nigh. I need your help. I’m sorry that . . .”
“You’re sorry?” The man laughed.
Will gripped his handgun tighter. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Actually, desperate.”
“That doesn’t excuse you being here.”
“I know.”
Silence.
“You want me to leave? Forget this happened?”
The man’s face was now visible in the hallway light. “Too late for that.”
“It’s never too late.”
“Oh, it is.” This was another man’s voice. From behind Will.
A gun barrel against the back of Will’s head was unmistakable. “I see.”
“Bet you do.”
The man in the hallway said, “I think you’d better come in so that we can decide what to do with you.”
Will was sitting at a kitchen table, his hands flat on its surface. His handgun was lying on a bench on the other side of the room. Next to it were rolled-up charts, maps of Greenland, compasses, a sextant, microscopes, plastic bags containing soil samples, a pile of academic papers, a jar of loose rolling tobacco, and a laptop. The four people were standing, watching him. One of them was smoking; the second was making hot drinks; the third was twirling a butcher’s knife; and the fourth was standing stock-still while pointing a handgun at Will’s head.
The person making the tea was the leader of a team that the scientific community of Greenland believed was Finnish and here to carry out research in geophysics and climate change. Nobody paid them any attention during their frequent expeditions north and to the west coast, as Greenland was awash with similar scientific outfits. But even if anyone took an interest in their activities, the trips within Greenland were purely for show. Their low-level flights into Canada were most certainly not.
They were a covert team of Russian GRU military intelligence operatives who used their cover in Greenland to make secret sorties into Canada, where they would refresh buried caches of weapons and supplies, monitor the activity of Canadian and American naval deployments in the Arctic, and report back to Moscow anything of interest that could support a Russian assault on the United States via Canada. It was a task for a bygone era; now the Cold War was over and Russia had no appetite or ability to engage head-on with America. But there were still some in the Russian high command who yearned for the good old days, hence this team was under direct orders to maintain and observe the Canadian flank. Though it was a futile task, it did nothing to diminish the risks the team took or the hardships it endured, particularly at this time of year. Typically operating in two-man teams, they would spend days and sometimes weeks in Canada’s harshest terrains, usually in the northern archipelago, before being picked up by the Islander and returned to Greenland. Will admired their professionalism, even though he was also well aware that they were highly trained killers.
The team leader was called Ulana. She slammed a mug of tea in front of Will and said in English, “You brought others along with you?”
As Will looked at her, he wondered how she coped being a woman alone out here in charge of three men. She had a whippet-thin, sinewy physique and was as strong as any of the men she commanded, which no doubt helped. That, and the fact that she wore a permanent reminder to anyone that she was extremely dangerous—a vivid scar across her throat that had come from a man who’d tried to decapitate her before she broke free and used his knife to gut him. “Thanks for the drink. No, just me.”
“You sure?”
Will glanced at the man pointing a gun at him. “Nothing else would make any sense.”
Ulana nodded. “That’s true. But you’re a tricky bastard and it wouldn’t be the first time that you’d deliberately done something that didn’t make sense.”
“Not on this occasion. Our agreement remains fully intact.”
An agreement that was two years old and was initiated shortly after Will had been told about the GRU team in Greenland by one of his GRU double agents. He’d considered telling CSIS, the Canadian intelligence service, about the unit’s activities in the northern archipelago, but had decided their activities were harmless, and in any case they could prove useful to him. So instead, at a time when Alistair thought Will was on vacation, he’d observed the team and approached its leader when she was alone. They’d agreed on terms, though Will and Ulana both knew it was a precarious deal.
The man with the knife stopped twirling it and pointed the blade at Will. “You know this isn’t the way to go about getting our help.”