Dark Spies (22 page)

Icy rain was penetrating the gap between his jacket’s collar and his back, causing his skin to tingle and rise in goose bumps. His muscles ached from fatigue, his earlier exertions, and stress; his mind was awash with self-doubt and anxiety that Ellie Hallowes wouldn’t deliver on her side of the bargain they’d reached in Norway.

Norway.

It seemed that he’d been there in another age.

So much had happened between Scandinavia and here.

And maybe all of it was pointless.

He entered D.C.’s Chinatown as the dark clouds above him clapped and thundered, as if they were summoning sentinels to lash the air beneath them with bolts of electricity.

Will continued walking through a sea of umbrellas held by tourists gawping at the delicious food on display in the restaurant windows. How enticing the rotisserie chickens and other exotic cuisine looked, and he felt engulfed by the urge to step into one of the warm eateries, sit at a table, and order enough food to feed an army. That’s where he would be shot, like a mobster taking a reflective and indulgent moment away from death and extortion, eating a meal in the comfort of civilized refinement, unaware that it was his last.

He kept moving, wondering if this place had looked similar when Ellie Hallowes came here.

If she’d come here.

He felt his left eye twitching, an involuntary movement prompted by nerves and tiredness and a body that was crying out for him to finally stop. The feeling made him recall how Chief Inspector Dreyfus’s eye would start to twitch as Inspector Clouseau’s unwavering incompetence would escalate in the Pink Panther movies. The image temporarily made him smile, though also made him question where his mind was.

He tried to settle his thoughts by recalling memories that meant something to him—whether they were good or bad.

At home in London, cooking pheasant breasts and smoked bacon in a dry cider casserole while listening to Andrés Segovia’s classical guitar recitals; in a scuba suit while drifting peacefully in the deep, sun-penetrated azure waters of the Red Sea alongside wrasse, tuna, turtles, and a British Vanguard–class Trident nuclear submarine; watching an American girl called Kelly smile and relieve the butterflies in his stomach when she said yes after he asked her out for a first date in high school; standing on top of a snow-covered mountain in the Scottish Highlands and feeling like he was in heaven, even though he was barefoot and in red overalls and being pursued by an MI6 training staff hunter-killer force; being kicked in the head by high school jocks in his class who said he was a faggot for playing viola; and being a sandy-haired and freckled seven-year-old, sitting on a beach and scraping out whelks from their shells, and bursting into tears as he saw his mother cry because she was so sad that two years earlier Dad had been captured in Iran and was presumed dead.

These and many other thoughts ran through his mind as he continued moving through Chinatown.

He broke left into a dark, narrow alleyway full of trash bins, with fire escapes on the adjacent building walls. He was relieved to see that no one was in here, and moved three-quarters of the way toward the far end. Crouching down, he stared at a part of the wall where a year ago he’d loosened a brick in case of need. He’d done similarly in every city he’d been to in the world. They were his dead-letter boxes, his means to communicate with others like him.

So many times during his odyssey to reach this place he’d mentally pictured this moment. And most times his despairing mind had imagined him pulling out the brick and seeing an empty void.

Part of him didn’t want to find out whether his journey and the risks he’d taken had been a complete waste of time, because if there was nothing behind the brick he’d have no choice other than to walk out of the alley and surrender to the nearest cop.

He breathed in, ignoring the rain that was pouring over his body, removed his knife, and eased the loose brick out of its cavity. His hand was shaking as he placed it in the hole.

Something was in there.

Hard.

His fingers gripped it.

A small box.

His heart was pounding, but there was no feeling of elation because he knew that inside could be a note saying, “I’m sorry, Will, but I can’t go through with this.”

He withdrew the container and held it in the palm of his hand. It was a cheap black jewelry box with a metal clasp to keep its lid in place. After standing, he looked left and right along the alley in case he was being watched, but saw no one.

Both of his hands were now shaking.

Everything that had happened to him had been about this moment.

He opened the box.

Inside was a small slip of paper.

Keeping his head and upper body over the box so that rain didn’t saturate the paper and make illegible the one thing in the world that he wanted right now, he unfolded the paper.

On it was a cell phone number.

One that nobody else had.

Except Ellie Hallowes.

Will snapped the box shut, closed his eyes, and exclaimed, “Thank God!” as he tossed his head back so that rain could wash over his face. “Thank you, God!”

Now he could contact Ellie.

And learn the truth about Ferryman.

Dickie Mountjoy and David sat in a rear room within Phoebe’s small art gallery, in London’s Pimlico district. Phoebe was with them, strutting back and forth; to Dickie’s mind, she was all tits and ass with barely anything to cover them.

The room was head-to-toe white and contained nothing save the chairs they were sitting on, an easel supporting a canvas covered by a white cloth, and a young gay man called Marcel, who was standing next to the painting. Dickie hadn’t liked Marcel on sight; thirty seconds after hearing him speak, the retired major wanted to shoot him.

Marcel was wearing Turkish trousers that made him look like he’d had an involuntary bowel movement, sandals without socks, and a collarless purple shirt that was so vivid it made Dickie gag just by looking at the damn thing.

Dickie jabbed his walking stick against the floor. “Stop poncing around and get on with it.”

“Dickie!” Phoebe looked sternly at the major. “You can’t rush art.”

“Yes you bleedin’ can. You just work harder, like people do with proper jobs.”

Marcel rolled his eyes at Phoebe, and when he spoke it was in the over-the-top tone favored by certain English actors from a bygone era. “Oh, darling. You didn’t tell me you’d be bringing Neanderthal Man to our precious gallery.”

“Neanderthal Man?!” Dickie pointed his stick at Marcel. “Least I am a man.”

“Whatever, Grandpa.”

Dickie glanced at David, who was making his rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression and looked like he wanted to bolt. “You comfortable with your missus hangin’ around with these queer types? They might turn her, you know.”

The mortician blurted, “Phoebes isn’t my missus . . . not quite yet, anyway.”

“Best you stop wasting her time then, Sunny Jim. Phoebe doesn’t do subtle. You need to sweep the girl off her feet and get her legs around you
toot sweet
.” Dickie smiled before turning his glare back onto Marcel. “And talking of wasting my time . . .”

Marcel looked at Phoebe. “Kitten, you’ve no idea how much I’ve struggled with this. I do abstract paintings, and you know that. This isn’t my kind of thing.”

Dickie muttered, “You’re a walking, talking
abstract
.”

Phoebe ignored the major’s comment and said to her artist, “We’re not expecting great. Anything’s better than what Will’s got right now. It’s torn to shreds.”

Marcel lit a cigarette. That didn’t bother Dickie. But when the painter placed the cigarette in a long antique holder, it took all of the major’s self-control to stop him from knocking the blasted thing out of Marcel’s hand.

Marcel gripped the top of the sheet with two fingers, and hesitated. “If you don’t like it, I won’t be offended.”

Phoebe kissed Marcel on both cheeks . . .

An action that prompted Dickie to nudge David in the ribs and exclaim, “You lettin’ her get away with that?”

. . . and she said, “You’re such a sweetie, Marcel. If it’s awful, we won’t hold it against you.” She gave Dickie her dominatrix expression. “Will we?”

Dickie huffed.

“Very well then.” Marcel sighed and whipped off the cloth.

Underneath was Marcel’s oil reproduction of the English artist J. M. W. Turner’s classic 1839 painting
The Fighting Temeraire,
depicting the ninety-eight-gun HMS
Temeraire
. The warship had played a distinguished role in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, but since then the old warrior had been deemed technologically obsolete. The painting showed a paddle-wheel steam tug towing the ship toward its final berth in London, where it was to be broken up for scrap.

Dickie awkwardly got to his feet, put his reading glasses on, and walked right up to the painting. Nobody in the room spoke as the major bent forward to closely examine the work.

Phoebe and David braced themselves for another of his inappropriate rants.

But Dickie stood upright and tried to stop his eyes from watering as he looked directly at Marcel. “It’s . . . it’s . . . Mr. Cochrane will be over the moon with this.” He glanced at the magnificently vibrant and brushstroke-perfect reproduction before returning his gaze to Marcel. “Well done, sir.” He tried to stop the emotion coming out in his voice, but failed. “Well done indeed. You’ve done us proud.”

“You wanted to see me.” Helen Coombs stood nervously in the entrance to Director Ed Parker’s spacious office in Langley. The CIA analyst wished she’d known she’d be summoned this morning to see the director; she’d have made more of an effort with her clothes and hair. She felt frumpy and fat.

Ed smiled and stood up from behind his desk. “Yes I did, Helen. And don’t be concerned—there’s nothing to worry about.” He gestured to a seat on the opposite side of his desk and sat back down. “By the way, love what you’ve done with your hair.”

She waddled to the chair and sat. “Have I done something wrong?”

Keeping his grin fixed on his face, Ed shook his head. “Ms. Coombs, you’re one of my best analysts. Just wish some of your colleagues could learn a thing or two from your work.”

The comment reassured Helen, and she felt her body relax, though she knew she had to remain on her guard. Mr. Parker could be all charm, but he was still senior management, and one didn’t get to that rank without being canny and fork-tongued.

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?”

“No, I’m fine, sir.”

“Okay.” Parker interlaced his fingers. “All I have for you is a quick question. First thing in the morning three days ago, you pulled the Ferryman files from archives. You’re perfectly entitled to do that, since you have clearance, but I just wanted to check why you did so.”

Helen frowned. “Three days ago.”

“Just after nine
A.M.
”

Helen tried to get her mind to think clearly, not an easy task when someone as lowly as her was in the presence of such a senior clandestine officer. “I . . .”

“Take your time. Jeez, sometimes I struggle to remember what I’ve done yesterday.”

The frown remained on Helen’s face. “No, it’s okay. Just . . . just kinda embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?”

“Yeah, I . . .” Helen’s palms felt sweaty. “Embarrassing because four nights ago I got drunk.”

Parker laughed. “What you get up to in your own time is your business, providing it doesn’t become a problem and interfere with your day job.”

“That’s the embarrassing thing.” Helen felt like she wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. “Having to admit this to management. I got drunk in a bar, lost my Agency security pass, got home, and carried on partying. Truth is, sir, I was too ill to make it in to work the next day. You certain it was three days ago?”

Parker felt his skin crawl and his stomach tighten into knots. “Positive.”

“Anyway, I haven’t looked at the Ferryman files for at least a couple of weeks. No way did I pull them days ago. Couldn’t have. Impossible.”

All trace of Parker’s geniality had vanished. “When did you report your missing pass to our security department?”

“I . . . I didn’t wake up until after lunchtime. I guess it was about midafternoon when I realized the pass was missing. I called the bar I’d been to the night before. They told me someone had found and handed in my wallet. Guess I’d lost it at the same time as I dropped my pass. But unfortunately the pass wasn’t found. I made the call to security after that. Told them the loss wasn’t suspicious. They said they’d cancel the missing pass and reissue me with a new one.”

Parker felt a sharp pain behind his eyes. “Were you accompanied by anyone when you were in the bar and when you went home to continue drinking?”

Helen bowed her head silently, her mind racing.

“Anyone?” The director’s tone was stern. “Right now, I don’t care if it was a married Agency guy or a Russian spy. But I need a name.”

“I’m sorry, I . . .”

“Did you walk home?”

“No, no.”

“Drive your own car?”

“No.”

“Someone else drive it for you?”

Helen shook her head.

“In that case, you must have taken a cab home. How did you pay for it when you’d lost your wallet? I’m thinking someone else paid. And I need that person’s name.”

Helen’s eyes were watering. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Parker.”

“A name!”

She looked up. “Ellie Hallowes.”

TWENTY-NINE

A
s Patrick exited his car on Pennsylvania Avenue and handed the keys to a valet, the sight of the large SWAT truck farther up the road disgorging two snipers and two spotters made the CIA officer feel sick with worry for Will Cochrane. He’d often felt this sensation when Will was deployed on missions, but this was different.

Will wasn’t operating for a greater cause, and moreover was almost certainly going to die at the hands of the country he’d protected so many times.

He watched the sniper team disappear from view, wondering where they were going to hide and also wondering how many other snipers remained in the SWAT truck as it pulled away. Above him, he could see three police helicopters, and he knew they contained expert marksmen who could take a man’s head off from a distance while moving at speed. In every direction across the city, he could hear emergency vehicles’ sirens wailing.

He pulled up the collar of his overcoat to shield himself from the rain, and walked fast toward the entrance to the Café du Parc. Alistair was drinking a cup of tea within the venue’s Le Bar, and he offered no greeting or friendly expression as his colleague removed his coat and slumped into a chair opposite him.

The MI6 controller unnecessarily stirred his tea. “It’s a pleasure to be out of Bureau or Agency earshot.”

“Damn right it is.” Patrick loosened the knot in his tie.

“So, what’s happened?”

“I’ve read an interesting SMS.”

“On your telephone?”

“No.”

Alistair smiled. “Ah, on Mr. Sheridan’s phone.”

Patrick nodded.

Ever since the two senior spies had been assigned to Marsha Gage’s team and forced to share the Bureau ops room with Sheridan, Alistair and Patrick had challenged each other to see how often they could read Sheridan’s messages without getting caught.

“He was in the men’s room—just for thirty seconds, but that was long enough for me. Message was from Ed Parker, saying he needs to bring Hallowes into HQ.”

Alistair intertwined his fingers. “Ellie Hallowes.” He was deep in thought. “She’s of no use to anyone in the Agency right now, until she’s deployed again overseas. Strange that someone as senior as Parker is bothering someone as senior as Sheridan to waste time tracking down an agent who to all intents and purposes isn’t worthy of their time.”

“I agree. And that means her importance has just shot through the roof.”

“They need her to help them.”

“Unlikely.”

“So, more likely she’s done something that’s truly bothered them.”

“And they want to put the thumbscrews on her.”

Alistair nodded.

Both men had long suspected that Hallowes could be a vital asset to Cochrane, and in particular that she would attempt to access the Ferryman files and relay what she’d read to Cochrane if he made it to the States. One of the first things Patrick had done after the initial meeting with Jellicoe, Sheridan, and Parker—wherein the co-heads were told that their Task Force S was shut down with immediate effect—was to retrieve from the Agency personnel database Hallowes’s cell phone number and the name of the D.C. hotel she was staying in. Neither Alistair nor Patrick had contacted her, but they’d kept her details in case of need.

“Matters are drawing to a head.”

Patrick agreed. “Rapidly.”

“And all you and I can do is gently nudge events.”

“But do so in a way that helps our boy.”

Their boy, Will Cochrane.

The son of CIA officer James Cochrane, who’d surrendered to revolutionaries in Iran in order to save the lives of Alistair and Patrick; the young boy who’d never known that his widowed mother was secretly given financial support from the two men who would feel lifelong guilt that they were alive and James Cochrane wasn’t; the MI6 trainee who would be taken under their wing and subjected to a brutal instruction program that some might think was sadistic, but others in the know would realize was the one thing Cochrane needed at that time to prevent him from losing his soul; the spy who’d stepped up to the plate on their behalf and three times stopped genocide; the man who would forever remind them of their brave former colleague and friend.

At no point were Alistair and Patrick ever going to fully comply with the CIA or Marsha Gage.

It just wasn’t in their makeup.

“The SMS to Sheridan?”

Patrick answered, “Deleted by me.”

“No more than two hours before Parker sends him another message or tries calling him.”

“I’m working on the basis of one hour max.”

“And you read Parker’s message . . . ?”

Patrick looked at his watch. “Sixteen minutes ago.”

“Have you tried calling Hallowes?”

“Yes, from a pay phone. Her cell’s switched off.”

Alistair stirred his now cold tea and tapped his silver spoon hard on the cup’s rim. “That’s not good.”

Ellie was sitting in her room in the huge Washington Marriott Wardman Park hotel. Ordinarily, she’d love being in a hotel like this—not because it was luxurious, but because it had over a thousand rooms located on ten floors, meaning she could come and go using different entrances and elevators and ultimately could move around the place unnoticed. But now, the vastness of the hotel made her feel that she was an insignificant speck of dust.

She supposed she should show her face in Langley at some point this afternoon. Not that anyone cared whether she checked in to the Agency HQ. Most people in the CIA didn’t know her, and the few that did viewed her as a spook without a portfolio who needed to be returned to the shadows because she reminded them that real spying was wholly unreflective of the clean-cut ambience that pervaded Langley.

She switched on her TV and looked for updates about the hunt for Cochrane. She saw live images of D.C.—police helicopters hovering beneath the dark clouds over the city; cop cars racing along the streets; tactical teams carrying assault rifles; and snipers and their spotters on rooftops. The camera switched to an interview with the chief of the Metro Transit Police Department who was standing outside Union Station and saying that he hoped legal charges against Cochrane would lead with his attempted murder of four cops.

Ellie turned off the TV, feeling that all was now hopeless. Even a man like Cochrane wouldn’t keep going to get answers within an environment as hostile as this. He’d realize that his only option was to flee. Maybe he’d try to get back to Europe. No, it would be just as bad for him there. Much better would be for him to travel south and covertly cross the border into Mexico. Either way, there was no doubt in Ellie’s mind that there was nothing more he could do to get to the bottom of Project Ferryman.

She grabbed her coat and handbag with the intention of heading to Langley, then froze.

A noise was coming from inside her bag.

She knew what it was, but simply couldn’t believe she was hearing the sound.

Urgently, she thrust her hand into the bag and withdrew her cell phone.

Not the one the Agency knew about. She had switched that off because nobody called her.

Instead, the one whose number she had secreted in a box in Chinatown.

The screen showed a local landline number.

Someone dialing a wrong number?

She told herself to snap out of it and answer the damn thing.

As Charles Sheridan walked through the entrance to the Wardman Park hotel, his overriding thought was that it was going to be a pleasure putting his hands around the throat of the duplicitous bitch.

Parker had called him twenty minutes earlier, asking why he’d not responded to his SMS. Sheridan hadn’t received that message; strange, though he was still struggling to come to grips with this stupid childish cell phone technology. But a good old-fashioned telephone call had cleared things up, and he’d wasted no time in getting over here so that he could haul Ellie Hallowes’s ass out of the hotel and take her somewhere quiet for a chat.

Ellie couldn’t believe she was hearing his voice. He sounded tired, and was speaking loudly because there was a lot of background noise. Probably he was calling from a street pay phone somewhere busy. But there was no doubting who he was.

Will Cochrane.

She tried to concentrate as he gave her precise instructions: at three this afternoon she needed to be sitting in Teaism, on Connecticut Avenue at Lafayette Park. Though she wouldn’t be able to see him, Will would be watching the café and would approach at a time of his choosing. If he hadn’t made the approach by four thirty, it meant he suspected she was under surveillance. If that happened, she needed to leave, and he would call her the same time tomorrow with new instructions.

Will ended the call.

Ellie stared at the phone.

Part of her felt overjoyed.

The rest of her knew Will was insane to remain in D.C.

Sheridan smiled as he rode the elevator to the sixth floor. He and Parker were in no doubt about what had happened a few days ago. Hallowes had deliberately targeted the analyst Helen Coombs because she had clearance to read the Ferryman files. Hallowes had gotten her so drunk that she couldn’t make it to work the next morning, had stolen her security pass and used it while Coombs was still sleeping off her hangover, and had pretended to be her so she could read the files.

Sheridan had to admit that Hallowes had displayed incredible bravery by infiltrating one of the Agency’s most sensitive archives while in disguise. But that admiration wasn’t going to get in the way of what needed to be done to the traitor.

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor. Sheridan exited and walked along the corridor toward Ellie Hallowes’s hotel room.

Even though she had two hours to kill before she needed to be in the vicinity of the café, Ellie was desperate to get on the road. But she knew she had to make preparations. She opened her laptop and browsed the Internet. Within seconds, she was staring at a map of the café and its surroundings. Her mind processed street names, points of interest, and routes. It was second nature to her, and within one minute she had a mental picture of the on-foot antisurveillance route she’d be taking to reach the venue. She wholly trusted Cochrane’s ability to spot anyone following her, but she also owed it to him not to bring any hostiles close to him.

She deleted her browsing history, exited the Net, snapped shut the laptop, and got ready to leave.

Then she heard the loud ringing of the doorbell to her room.

And someone knocking hard on the door.

Sheridan placed his hand on his gun, deciding that when Hallowes opened the door he’d shove the barrel in her mouth and keep it there when he pushed her onto her back. He imagined the terror in her eyes, her limbs thrashing wildly but to no avail as he pinned her down, and cocking the gun’s hammer in order to scare the shit out of her.

Then he’d tell her she had two choices: go calmly with him so that this delicate matter could be dealt with discreetly; or make a fuss, meaning he’d have to keep her in the room until an Agency team could arrive, inject her so that she was unconscious, and remove her body in a bag.

Ellie frowned as she walked toward the door. She had a Do Not Disturb sign hanging outside, and the maids had already cleaned the room while she’d been at breakfast. She hoped it wasn’t hotel management stopping by to tell her that her work credit card had been declined again. Damn Agency accounts department had forgotten to top it up with funds a couple of days ago and it had taken her hours of cutting through bureaucratic bullshit to get it sorted out.

She opened the door.

A man stood in front of her and started talking immediately. “Ellie Hallowes. You don’t know me but I know you. Name’s Patrick. I’m Agency. Cochrane works for me and I’m here to help you ’cause you’re in danger.”

“What?”

“Immediate danger!” Patrick grabbed her arm, pulled her out of the room, kicked shut the door, and dragged her along the corridor.

“What’s going on?!”

“We’ve got to run! Sheridan’s coming for you because you read the Ferryman files.” The CIA officer yanked her thin arm. “Trust me! He’s on this floor. We gotta get out of here right now!”

Ellie looked over her shoulder, desperately trying to decide what to do. Trust this stranger? Was this a trap? Maybe this guy was working for Sheridan and he was tricking her so that he could lead her right to him.

But his eyes were imploring, his expression urgent.

She had to go on her gut feel.

“Okay. This way.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and sprinted alongside the man, who looked like he was in his fifties but seemed to have no problem running at the speed of a man two decades younger. They were moving away from the main lobby elevator that Sheridan would most likely take to her floor and heading toward the fire stairs. As they turned the corner into another corridor, Ellie wondered what they would do if they crashed into Sheridan, but there was no one there aside from maids, who were looking at them with bemused faces. Her breathing was fast and shallow, but adrenaline kept her moving.

Into the stairwell.

Down flights of stairs.

On the third flight down, Ellie tripped and nearly fell headfirst, but Patrick grabbed her and shouted, “Keep moving!”

Thank God she was wearing pants and boots, because otherwise she’d have snapped her neck by now.

Two more flights, taken at speed, hands grabbing rails, spinning around corners, jumping, and moving legs and feet faster than a line dancer on amphetamines. This was the lobby floor. Was this the best way to get out of the hotel?

Patrick read her thoughts. “Let’s get down to basement parking!”

Fifteen seconds later they were running across the garage, this time Patrick leading the way holding his car keys. They got into his sedan and Patrick immediately engaged gears and revved so hard that the car’s tires screeched in the vast basement parking lot. He thrust his prepaid parking ticket at the attendant as they reached the exit, and sped onto Connecticut Avenue NW. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he muttered, “Can’t see anything unusual. You?”

Ellie fixed her eyes on the side-view mirror. After ten seconds, she said, “Nothing unusual.”