Spy Trade (9 page)

Patrick tried to object.

But Will interrupted him. “Just do it. I’m on the next available flight to D.C.”

T
he former Russian Special Forces operative shoved his binoculars into his jacket and sprinted between trees and alongside dense foliage. His target—the operative who’d just met with Mikhaylov—couldn’t see him. He withdrew a knife similar to the one he’d used to end Eddie Lanes’s life. Its blade was sturdy and razor-sharp. In the hands of a child, it could easily kill an adult as powerfully built as the man he was going to murder. In the Russian’s hand, the blade could make a man unrecognizable as a human being.

Even with no weapons, the Russian’s combat expertise was such that time and time again he’d been able to use his hands, feet, knees, and other body parts to make men and women’s bones break, their hearts stop, and their brains shut down forever.

He stopped close to a clearing at the easterly end of the pond. Crouching to one side of a bush, he saw the operative talking on his cell phone as he walked along the park’s footpath. The man was oblivious to the nearby predator. That was a bonus though the Russian would have been equally comfortable meeting him head-on. That would happen two hundred yards ahead of the man. There was a cluster of trees that obscured the path within them. A perfect place to dispatch the operative. He moved fast along the tree line, needing to get ahead of his prey and close to the kill zone. The next time he’d see him, the killer would be looking into his eyes while twisting the blade of his knife in his gut.

E
verything now made sense to Will. When Patrick had sat next to him in London’s Royal Albert Hall and told him about Saud, Will had responded that he had to construct a starting point to the mission that was outside of conventional thinking. Patrick had countered with skepticism, saying Will’s position was fine so long as he had an idea where such an unconventional approach might lead. Will remembered what he had told Patrick.

I’ve several hypotheses as to where it could lead
,
and one in particular fascinates me.

It had fascinated him. And now he was convinced it was the truth.

He kept on walking, deciding that he’d head to Kuzminka Metro Station and take the train back to the airport.

T
he Russian breathed deeply and silently as he reached his kill zone. He’d sprinted to get there, moving over rough land, hiding within the cover of trees and bushes. The target would arrive in seconds. Soon, he’d have sight of him again. He wondered how hard the man would resist his inevitable death. Probably, he’d react like a wounded lion. Desperate. Savage. Undisciplined. Like the big-game animals of bygone days who’d been lured to a tethered goat, only to be caught unawares by a hunter with a rifle. He smiled, gripping his knife.

The knee that punched into the base of his spine knocked him forward, but the hand that then gripped his throat made his upper body stay still while the momentum of his legs carried onward. His target was over him, squeezing his gullet and pushing him to the ground. The Russian kicked his side, wrapped his other leg around his neck, ready to move his leg sideways and flip the target away, and plunged his knife at the man’s belly.

But the man dodged the blade, grabbed the Russian’s knife-wielding hand with his thumb on the upper side and fingers underneath, and twisted his hand while looking into his eyes and calmly saying, “No.”

The word and accent were English.

An Englishman.

The Russian hated Englishmen.

They were so effete.

The Russian kept pushing his leg against the man’s neck. It was a move that put anyone away in the judo component of his beloved mixed martial arts. But the man on top of him remained stock-still. Immobile.

The Englishman broke the Russian’s wrist with a rapid snap, dropped quickly, and wrapped one arm around the Russian’s neck, the other was outstretched, blocking the killer’s free arm. He tightened his bicep around the Russian’s throat, squeezing as slowly and assuredly as a boa constrictor, one leg cocked at a forty-five-degree angle flush against the heathland underneath, the other ramrod straight and pointing away from the men. The legs were counterbalances and grips, adding to the impossibility of escape.

But the Russian struggled anyway.

His target held him in his viselike grip. In a soothing voice, he whispered, “Don’t struggle. You know it delays matters.”

The Russian slapped his hand repeatedly on the ground. It was instinctual, like his opponents had done many times on the dojo mat of his MMA class in his club in south London. It meant,
Release me
,
I give up.

Will Cochrane didn’t give up. Not until the Russian went limp and was dead.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

W
hen the six jihadists entered the dead room, Bob Oakland and the translator looked at each other, both certain their time together was drawing to an end. They wanted death, but not like this. Butchered in a secret complex in western Syria or northern Iraq. It was inhumane, a barbarism that shouldn’t have been possible within the human race, and yet one that history had proven time and time again was prevalent. War crimes, genocides, torture, rape, mass exterminations, mutilations—people blamed them on monsters working the system. Bob now believed it didn’t make sense. The world couldn’t be awash with monsters who were waiting for the right opportunity to unleash their true potential. Instead, he now decided that the truth was much more unpalatable. We are all monsters. It’s just that most people don’t know it because their lives are okay, and they’re never put in a situation where bloodlust couples with an insane survival instinct. If Bob were released from his ropes and chains, given a knife, and his wounds and strength allowed, he’d go crazy, be a savage beast, a monster and rip apart the jihadists and keep ripping them apart when they were dead. Perhaps Ramzi would be the same.

No.

As desperate as both men were, the image just didn’t seem right. It was impossible for Ramzi and him to do stuff like that because there were no monsters lurking inside them. The thought gave him hope for humanity though he had no hope for his own civility because he was as good as dead.

The camera was placed on a tripod in the center of the room. One of the Chechens stood behind it, facing the red Arabic letters on the far wall. The chains locking Bob and Ramzi to the walls were released from their catches. Both men were dragged nearer to the camera and forced onto their knees. Five of the jihadists stood behind them, scarves wrapped around their faces. The camera was turned on.

In English, the unit’s leader said, “Hello again, Mr. President. If you are a merciless pig who hates Americans, today will be these men’s last day on Earth.” He slapped Bob’s head with sufficient force to cause blood to whip out of the CIA officer’s mouth and fly across the room. “You shouldn’t be surprised. We gave you fair warnings. It’s just that so far you haven’t listened.”

Bob thought his ear might be perforated. The noise on that side of his head was severe though he could still hear the jihadist’s words.

“This evening it will begin. You will watch what happens in our final video. But you have four hours to change the course of events. If Arzam Saud is released, and you can convince me that you have a plan that doesn’t entail trying to kill us as we exchange prisoners, then I give you my word that these men will be kept alive and returned to you.” He moved in front of Bob, crouched so that his face was at the same level as Bob’s, and asked the CIA officer, “Would you like to go home?” He smiled; his eyes were cold. “I bet you would, you miserable dog.”

Bob wanted to spit in his face, tell him to go fuck himself, and show as much defiance as was possible from a man who was bound in ropes. But things had now changed within him. He felt helpless and resigned to his plight. The man he’d been up to two days ago belonged to an unwanted story. Everything here was all too real. Too horrific. Too repulsive to be in a tale.

Bob looked directly into the camera. His bloodshot eyes were dried-up windows to a savaged soul; they had nothing to give anymore beyond telling the world that this could happen to anyone if they were unlucky. He murmured something, but it came out all wrong and was unintelligible. He glanced at Ramzi, who was staring at him, a look of utter desperation on the translator’s face. Ramzi nodded. Bob didn’t know why or what it meant. Maybe Ramzi was silently telling Bob that whatever he did or said, Ramzi would be shoulder to shoulder with the CIA officer and share whatever suffering came as a result.

Bob cleared his throat; he wanted to be stronger and wondered if in fact he and Ramzi had been extremely strong to make it this far.

He said, “Mr. President, I want to come home.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
O
NE

O
ne hour ago, Will had landed in Washington, D.C.’s Dulles International Airport. Via London, he’d flown business class from Moscow, purchasing a suit and toiletries at Heathrow and availing himself of the business-class departure lounge’s facilities to shower, shave, change into his new clothes, and make himself look nothing like a man who’d recently killed someone in a park.

The journey from London to D.C. had been agonizingly long, not helped by the fact that he’d had to sit next to a loud-mouthed Silicon Valley entrepreneur who’d spent the whole journey bragging to Will about how many billions of dollars were sitting in his bank account. In fairness to the entrepreneur, his last words to Will were self-effacing and deferential. When the aircraft was taxiing toward the arrivals area of the airport, the captain had welcomed passengers to Washington and added that there would be a slight delay in disembarking because the plane was carrying a VIP who had to leave the craft first. The plane had stopped a hundred yards away from its allotted spaced; police cars with lights flashing had raced onto the concourse and stopped by the plane; and uniform cops and plainclothes Secret Service agents had entered the plane and told Will to come with them. As Will grabbed his luggage out of the overhead locker, the entrepreneur had said to him, “I’ve spent the whole flight talking about how great I am. But, who the fuck are you?”

Now Will was sitting in a straight-backed chair in the center of the Oval Office. The president was sitting behind his desk at one end of the room. Standing close to him were Chief of Staff Donny Tusk, head of the Joint Special Operations Command Lieutenant General Jerry Kinnear, and Will’s former handler, CIA director Patrick Bolte. Moments ago, there’d been other politicians and senior military and intelligence personnel in the room, all here to watch the latest video of Bob Oakland. Tusk had ordered all of them to leave when Will had arrived.

Will was facing the four men, his legs crossed and his hands clasped. He was motionless, his brilliant intellect calculating hundreds of facts about the men before him. Only Patrick suspected the MI6 officer was mentally raping them, but he was reassured to note that Will betrayed no signs of doing so.

“We have sixty minutes left to release Saud and post a video on the Internet advising everyone that we’ve done so.” The president looked at Kinnear. “Tell him.”

The general addressed Will. “We’ve got Saud in a holding pen at McGuire AFB—McGuire military airbase in New Jersey. We video him getting on that plane. We tell the terrorists that we’re flying him to the Middle East. When we’ve landed, we tell the terrorists to call our embassy in Baghdad. Our ambassador will field that call in person. He’ll ask for the grid reference where his captors want to make the exchange. We stick to our word. The exchange is clean. No military intervention.”

“And in doing so, we get our boy back at the price of negotiating with terrorists.” The president looked weary. “I can’t let the world watch Bob and his aide be hacked to pieces. I’ll be damned if I do. Trouble is, I’ll be damned if I don’t.”

Will’s eyes darted between each man before settling back on the president. “Don’t make the trade.”

Kinnear’s fist thumped the president’s desk. “You’re playing with lives, son!”

“I never play. Don’t make the trade.”

Donny Tusk folded his arms while studying Will. “You think we shouldn’t give in to terrorists’ demands?”

“Of course, but my stance is underpinned by specifics. I don’t believe they’ll kill Oakland if we refuse to budge though I could be wrong.” Will saw hostility on all of the men’s faces, even in his loyal friend Patrick’s expression. “I realize my advice carries with it some degree of risk.”

“
Degree of risk?
” Kinnear stood, his face crimson. “You arrogant son of a bitch!”

Will was unflustered. “Arrogance is a sense of superiority over others, coupled with contempt for the weak. I have no such contempt. Nor do I think I’m superior to any living organism on this planet. But weakness is pertinent. Ramzi is weak. Even tough Bob Oakland looks like he’s been broken. We are weak. We must all help each other. And the only way to do that is to stand firm.”

Patrick’s expression changed to one of concern as he looked at Will. “If you’ve got this wrong, my friend, it’ll be on your head. You’re making an almighty call.”

“Actually, it’s
my
head and
my
call.” The president asked Will, “Isn’t that correct, Mr. Cochrane?”

Will replied, “You make decisions based upon the information supplied to you. If my information is shit, you have my complete permission to shoot the messenger.”

“That’s not how it happens, at least not around me.” The president pointed a finger at Will. “Still, I’m not making a decision until I’ve heard everything. Why do you think we shouldn’t give in to their demands?”

The men were silent as Will spoke for ten minutes.

“Jeez,” said Tusk as he rubbed his face. He looked at the president. “But they still might kill Oakland and the translator anyway.”

“The chief of staff’s right.” Will’s eyes were unblinking as he stared at the president. “I’m certain what I’ve told you is fact. But I cannot predict what the terrorists will do if we face them down. They may kill Oakland simply out of spite or to tie up loose ends.”

Kinnear, Tusk, and Bolte started arguing with each other, with the president listening carefully to each man’s point of view.

“I have a solution.”

The four men stopped talking and looked at the MI6 officer.

Will elaborated, “Mr. President: send them a video message. After it’s finished, you will receive a call. I will give you the precise words to say to the caller.” He wrote on a piece of paper. Tusk grabbed the paper and handed it to the president.

When the president finished reading the few lines, he sat in silence for a minute, deep in thought. He lifted his head and said to his chief of staff, “Get a camera and technicians in here. Now!”

The technicians wanted longer to test audio levels and lighting, but thanks to Tusk’s threats to have them impaled on stakes if they didn’t move faster, they were ready to shoot within three minutes of entering the room.

The president made his address to the camera. “We want proof of life. Get Bob Oakland to make a call to the White House. I must speak with him.”

After the camera was turned off, and the technicians told to leave, the five men waited. All except Will kept glancing at their watches and wall clocks. In thirty minutes, Bob and Ramzi were going to be slowly executed on film.

Thirty minutes became twenty.

Kinnear started to sweat. “What if they haven’t seen the video?”

Calmly, Will said, “They have. Monitoring the Internet is vital to them at this juncture.”

Twenty became ten.

Then nine.

Then eight.

Donny Tusk was pacing. “Shit! Shit!”

Seven.

Kinnear was on the verge of panic when he exclaimed, “We get the camera back in here! Tell them we make the trade!”

Six.

Five.

The president’s phone rang. One of his staff spoke to him and said he had a call that needed to be urgently transferred to the Oval Office. The president waited. He said, “Hello, Bob.”

Bob Oakland’s voice was thin. “Mr. President. Sir. It’s me. I . . .”

Patrick wrote quickly on a piece of paper and shoved it in front of the president. The president read his instruction. “Bob: I’ve got to ask you a few questions. Ones that only you know the answers to. I need to check you are who you say you are. You okay with that?”

“Yes . . . yes.”

The president spoke to Oakland for a minute, asking him about CIA protocols and codes that the president and Oakland were cleared to know. He looked at his staff and nodded.

It was the real Bob Oakland on the phone.

The president said, “Hang in there, Bob. You’ve got a whole bunch of people, me included, who think you’re a hero to have survived what you’ve gone through. When we get you out of this situation, I’m going to meet you in person and make sure the world knows the remarkable service you’ve done for our country. But we’ve got matters to attend to first. Put their leader on. I need to say something to him.” The line went quiet.

The Chechen jihadist spoke. “You have less than two minutes. After that, I must hang up and set to work on your fellow American.”

The president picked up the paper Will had given him, and word for word relayed its contents. “We know everything about Arzam Saud. You want the world to know that Saud is a terrorist. Now, so do I. I’m not doing a public trade with you. That would undermine my position. But, it would also undermine yours. Trust issues would come into play. Was Saud brainwashed by us and turned when he was in captivity? Is he going to report back to us about ISIS? Islamic State won’t fully trust him. Maybe they won’t trust him at all. His stock could hit rock bottom. But I see your plight, and I’m very sympathetic to it. Though I don’t agree with what you’ve done, we share the same values and concerns. It’s in my interest to see matters are put right. One day soon, Arzam Saud will escape. We’ll make sure of that. He’ll make his way back to you. Probably he’ll rough up a few people along the way. That’ll look good. He’ll be hailed a hero by ISIS. His stock will hit the roof. He can go back to being a terrorist. In return, I ask that there is no more blood and that hearts remain beating. Do I have your agreement?”

There was silence at the end of the phone.

Then, the line went dead.