Sentinel (12 page)

Soon there were no streetlamps on the road; woods were either side of him. He increased the speed of the car’s windshield wipers and squinted to try to focus through the snow. The car’s heater was noisy and turned up high but barely seemed to be producing any heat. He recalled his wife nagging him to get a new car. She was right; this one was falling to pieces, and he doubted it would last through the winter.

A vehicle came toward him with its headlights on high. The officer swore as its glare nearly blinded him, and he slowed down until the car had passed. The road before him was now empty. He increased his speed, wondering if his wife would be preparing his favorite dish of kholodets. She had her own special recipe that eschewed veal in favor of pork legs and ears and beef tails.

He thought about the last few days. His work had been risky, and he was glad he’d completed his task successfully. Tonight he could relax, and he would uncork a few bottles of Pinot Noir. None of the guests knew what he did for a living, and even though his wife did know, she wasn’t privy to the details. And she certainly didn’t know his big secret. That didn’t matter. He’d simply tell them all that tonight he was celebrating getting through a tough week of work.

With every mile he drove, his mood lightened. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Picturing the dinner, he smiled. Maybe, when the evening was over and the children were asleep, his wife would make love to him.

Lowering his window a few inches, he moved the cigarette to the gap to tap ash outside of the car. A sudden gust of wind through the gap blew the cigarette out of his fingers and onto his chest. Cursing his stupidity, he looked down, searching for the glow of the cigarette’s embers before it burned a hole in his clothes. He found it in his lap, grabbed it, and looked up.

As he did so a car rammed his vehicle from behind.

The officer lurched forward until the seat belt tightened and forced air out of his lungs. He moaned, heard tires screeching and metal grinding against metal, and felt the steering wheel shuddering in his grip. Lifting his head, he saw headlights in the rear mirror, urgently looked ahead, and realized that his car was being pushed diagonally across the road toward the dense forest. He yanked hard down on the steering wheel; his car went into a spin.

What was happening?

Drunk driver?

The car spun 360 degrees. The officer saw that it was still heading toward the forest, where upon impact it was sure to be squashed. There were no air bags in this heap of crap.

He was just a few feet from the trees.

Barely three seconds away.

No chance of regaining control of his car.

Releasing the seat belt, he pushed open the door and dived onto the road, a moment before he heard the vehicle smash against the large wooden trunks. His elbows and kneecaps screamed in pain. Breathing deeply, he looked to his right. The car that had rammed him was 150 feet away, stationary, its headlights pointing at him. A tall man was walking toward him, only his silhouette visible.

Coming to help?

No, not with a long knife in one hand.

He pushed himself off the ground, wincing as his legs nearly buckled.

Fear and adrenaline.

Limping away from the scene, he moved along the center of the road. His home was only a couple of miles away. That’s all that mattered.

Two miles.

Home.

Lock the doors.

Get his gun.

He tried to run but could barely manage a jog; one of his legs was limping badly. Glancing urgently over his shoulder, he saw that the big man was still walking after him. He looked ahead. All was now in near darkness; snow was falling fast. The forest was on either side of him.

Go in there and hide?

And maybe freeze to death?

Or stay on the road in case help comes?

Just after the man easily caught up and murdered him?

He’d no idea what to do, so he kept moving along the road. His breathing was fast and shallow. Too many cigarettes. Too much rich food and wine. But he kept moving, even though every step sent shots of pain up his legs.

Get home.

Cuddle Nikita and Ivan.

Tell them he loved them.

Stay with them forever.

Don’t die.

The blow to his back sent him flying forward. Lying on the ground, he tried to crawl forward, his fingers digging through the snow.

Something hard smacked onto the nape of his neck and held him still.

A boot.

No adrenaline now.

Only absolute terror.

The boot lifted. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him onto his back. Then two hands grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet. The man’s face was inches from his. There was just enough light to see that he looked calm.

That he was Taras Khmelnytsky.

The officer’s legs kicked out, but it made no difference. Khmelnytsky held him firm, a smile now on his face.

Rapid movement.

Immense pain in his gut.

Of course.

The knife.

No chance now of cuddles with excited children, of consuming kholodets and Pinot Noir, of making love to his wife.

Khmelnytsky wrenched the knife up and dropped the officer.

He lay on the road, his whole body violently shaking. But his mind was still alive.

Khmelnytsky towered over him for a moment.

The officer thought about the secret that had made his week risky and tense. He wondered how his wife would’ve reacted if he’d told her about his work as an MI6 double agent.

He’d never know.

Khmelnytsky knelt down and thrust the knife into Borzaya’s face.

Chapter Fifteen

W
ill was back in Ukraine, striding through the lobby of Kiev’s Hyatt Regency, his cell phone against his ear. “I’m dining with him at seven tonight at the restaurant here. Will that give them enough time to assemble a team?”

Patrick’s voice sounded hesitant. “It’s going to be tight, but we’ll mark the telegram as
urgent.
”

Will sat on a corner sofa, away from other guests. “Tell them it’s imperative that they get every word.”

“Still can’t guarantee you won’t be lifted.”

“I know.”

Silence.

Will looked around the lobby. “When you get the transcript back, all I need to know is whether they’ve kept in the reference to the colonel.”

“Understood. I’ll send you an SMS.”

“Not to my Eden phone.”

“No shit.”

The lobby was starting to fill up. Will decided he needed to move.

“If they do lift you, you’re deniable—even if they throw you in prison for a few years.”

Will smiled. “No shit.”

I
t was early evening. Will was in his hotel room, finishing putting on his suit. Examining himself in a mirror, he was satisfied that he looked the part.

Thomas Eden. British national. Director of the London-based Thomas Eden Limited—a legitimate company but a suspected front for illegal arms procurement and one that had been under scrutiny by MI6 and the CIA.

This morning, the CIA had sent an urgent telegram to Ukraine’s security service, the Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny, stating that Thomas Eden was meeting the defense attaché of the Iranian Embassy in Kiev at seven
P.M.
in the Hyatt Regency’s restaurant. It requested that the SBU covertly record the conversation between the two men and send the transcript back to Langley; that Eden should not be touched, as to do so would compromise a bigger investigation into his arms deals; and that if the SBU did this the CIA would be very grateful and would supply some new intelligence on U.S.-Russian relations and the likely effect on Europe.

It was a straightforward request and the type that intelligence services often made of each other. It also suggested that the CIA was behaving itself in Ukraine by not trying to do things in the country without the SBU knowing.

But the truth was not straightforward. The telegram was transmitted with the hope that the SBU would send the transcript not only to the CIA but also to the SBU’s closest ally: the SVR.

Will gathered up his new business cards, which he’d collected from the Hotel Otrada the day before, after completing and couriering all Thomas Eden Limited documentation to his London accountant. It was time to go. He left his hotel room and took an elevator to the restaurant. As he descended, he began to get his mind into character.

Be gregarious, affable, money-driven, and occasionally crude, have an eye for anything in a skirt and no allegiances, and hate lawmakers. Be nothing like Will Cochrane.

The elevator doors opened; he walked into the restaurant. The 155-seat venue was three-quarters full. After giving his name to a waiter, he was shown to his table. The stocky, middle-aged Iranian DA was already there, dressed in a suit and sporting a mustache and lacquered black hair. He rose to shake Thomas Eden’s hand.

Will grinned and said in a loud voice, “Mr. Mousavi, good to meet you.”

The DA did not smile; instead, he looked cautious. “We could have met at the embassy.”

Will smiled wider as he sat down at the table. “Embassies are terribly dull places”—he grabbed a wine menu—“and they don’t normally have a good wine cellar.”

“Maybe I don’t drink.”

“If that’s the case, maybe you’re in the wrong job.”

Mousavi’s expression softened, though he still did not smile. Sitting down, he opened his white cloth napkin and placed it carefully over his lap. “Officially, I’m not supposed to meet strangers outside of the embassy.”

Will leaned forward, a twinkle in his eye. “But unofficially”—he glanced around before looking back at the DA—“these types of places are where the real work is done.” He whipped open his napkin and positioned it. “I’m so sorry, you need a business card.”

He gave him one, certain that the two couples at the table next to him were the SBU surveillance team and could easily overhear his conversation.

Mousavi looked at the card for a while before stating, “Canary Wharf is a prestigious address.”

Will shrugged. “I chose it because it gives me a good view of female bankers strutting to work in their tight office skirts.”

Mousavi smiled. “Business must be good.”

“Damn good.” Will beckoned a waitress. “So good that demand is outweighing supply.”

The waitress came over.

Will beamed at her. She was in her midtwenties and had short blond hair and no rings on her fingers.

In Russian, he asked, “What do you recommend to eat?”

She smiled, looked a little coy. “I’ve only just started working here and don’t really know the menu. Let me get someone else to serve you.”

Will wagged a finger. “That would ruin our evening. You’re the prettiest woman in here.”

She giggled. “Well, I’ve heard the steaks are good.”

Will glanced at Mousavi, who nodded and said, “Make mine well done.”

“And mine rare.” Will hated rare steaks but thought that’s how Thomas would like them. He opened the wine list, winked at the DA, and said while pointing at the list, “We’ll have this bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

When the waitress left, Mousavi asked in English, “Where did you learn Russian?”

“Household Cavalry. They put me on a year’s language course.” He grinned. “One year of sitting opposite a Russian stunner. She taught me a lot of stuff. More than she was supposed to . . .”

“My Russian teacher was nothing like that—nothing like that at all.” The DA looked serious. “Mr. Eden, your letter of introduction to me stated that you had an interesting business proposition to discuss.”

Will pointed at the DA. “
Confidentially
discuss.”

Mousavi seemed affronted. “I’m here in an official capacity.”

“I know.” Will leaned forward and lowered his voice a little. “But a man in my position has to be careful talking to someone from your country.”

“And what is your . . .
position
?”

Will leaned back and rubbed his hands together. “I do a lot of the normal stuff—procurement and sales to clients all over the world. It pays the bills.” He lost his smile. “But what I’m really good at, what I’m known for, is the classy high-end stuff.”

The waitress brought their bottle to the table and poured two glasses of wine. Will looked at her, his smile back on. “Chanel No. 19 . . .” He shook his head. “No. Chanel No. 19 Poudré. Am I right?”

The waitress nodded. “My boyfriend bought it for me. I couldn’t afford it on my salary.”

Will laughed. “Boyfriend? Too bad—for me.”

She smiled. “Not your lucky night.”

As she left, Will stared at her bottom, sighed, then looked sharply at Mousavi. “Blueprints of prototypes. The classy stuff. That’s what I deliver to discerning clients.”

“And you think the Iranian government might be interested in what you have to offer?”

Will shrugged. “I’m here to find out.” He lifted his glass and held it in midair over the table.

Mousavi stared at his own glass, then picked it up and chinked it against Will’s. “And I’m listening.”

Will took a sip of his wine and nodded approvingly. “This is a good drop.”

The DA drank. “I agree, though it’s a shame the restaurant doesn’t stock any ninety-eight.”

Will smiled. “I
knew
you’d know your wines.”

Mousavi placed his glass down. “What do you have?”

Will hesitated. “A new weapons system is being tested. It can easily be carried by one man and has a devastating effect.” He lowered his voice. “An ideal weapon for Iranian special forces.”

Mousavi seemed deep in thought. “Bombs?”

“Yes, but I can’t go into detail yet until I know where this conversation’s going.”

The DA frowned. “You have a legitimate supplier of the blueprints for these weapons?”

This was the moment Will had been leading up to.

“Legitimate suppliers are rarely of use to me. I’ve got a contact in the Russian army, a colonel. He’s involved with these weapons and has access to the blueprints. I’ve paid him a lot of money to copy the documents so that I can put them on the market. I’m giving you first refusal.”