Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Will smiled, patted Alistair gently on the arm, and said, “I know.”

Kurt Schreiber was motionless as he heard vehicles drive close to the main farmstead building. His back to the windows, he placed his manicured hands flat on the large cowhide writing desk and remained seated in the leather chair. Every wall in his big study was covered with bookshelves containing works on philosophy, mathematics, politics, economics, and history. Positioned over carpet and Oriental rugs were a three-piece suite and coffee table; straight-backed chairs; a rare nineteenth-century Thomas Malby globe that had cost nearly one million dollars; a beautiful burr walnut occasional table covered with antique maps and charts, and maritime navigation and timekeeping equipment; and a locked steamer trunk containing files on men and women he’d had cause to hurt or kill.

The old man ignored his surroundings and focused only on the noise of the vehicles. He knew there’d be four of them, two of which were SUVs, the other two performance sedan cars. A total of sixteen men were in the convoy; fifteen of them had worked for him for years; the sixteenth was a Russian who’d only just joined his payroll, although his employment would be short lived.

Having taken possession of its prize from the deniable private contractors, the group had taken nearly thirty-six hours to drive from Gdansk, covertly cross Poland’s border with Germany, continue on to the country’s northwestern state of Lower Saxony and head to the isolated farmstead, deep within the vast Luneburg Heath.

The vehicles stopped. Doors opened and closed. A man shouted an instruction. Fast movement. More noise, this time from within the large building. Then silence.

The retired Stasi colonel smiled, removed his rimless glasses, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them clean with a silk handkerchief. Fixing the glasses back in place, he interlaced his fingers and stared at the oak-paneled entrance. His breathing was slow; he felt very calm.

The door opened, and Simon Rubner entered. The forty-five-year-old Israeli walked up to the desk and stood before Kurt. Blond-haired, with a short groomed beard, an athletic build, and a penchant for wearing turtleneck sweaters, Simon looked more like a German U-boat commander than a former Mossad intelligence operative, which had always amused Kurt.

Simon’s eyes twinkled, the slightest smile emerged, and he nodded. “We got it, Mr. Schreiber.” He held out a folded piece of paper.

Kurt stared at the paper but remained motionless. “Were there any complications that I should be aware of?”

“The team had to fight their way through Gdansk. They met greater resistance than-”

Kurt held up one of his frail hands. “I’m not interested in the minutiae of who did what violent act to whom.”

Simon grinned. “No complications.”

Kurt nodded. “Excellent work, Simon.” He glanced at the door. “Where is the Russian?”

“Yevtushenko’s in the basement, with a hood over his head.”

“His demeanor?”

Simon shrugged. “He’s petrified. Once we got him over the border, we put him in shackles. I think he expected a hero’s welcome.”

“That’s what I told him to expect.” He took the folded paper and placed it on his desk.

“What shall we do with him?”

Kurt waved a hand dismissively. “He’s served his purpose. You’ve searched him?”

“Of course. No tracking devices. He brought one small bag containing clothes, his passport, cash”-he reached into his pocket-“and this.”

Kurt looked at the cell phone with an expression of contempt. He hated modern communications technology because it was insecure and, in his view, made people stupid. “Is there data that’s relevant?”

Simon put the phone on the desk. “It’s the lack of data that’s relevant. There’s only one number stored, no name attached to it, and a check of his call records shows that number is the only one that’s ever been used.”

“Interesting.” Kurt was deep in thought. “Keep him alive for now. He might be useful.”

After Simon left the room, Kurt waited a few minutes before opening a small velvet-covered stationery box and withdrawing another piece of paper. He unfolded it and placed it flat on the desk. It was a copy of the paper the German assassin had handed to the Americans in 1995. In the center of the paper were ten numbers. He looked at the other paper. He hadn’t seen it for nearly two decades. During that time he’d built a business empire that was highly lucrative, invisible, and illegal. Constructed on the principals of a global intelligence organization, it spanned four continents and employed over five hundred assets, most of whom were former intelligence or security service operatives. Its expertise consistently wrong-footed its competitors, though in truth it had none that were comparable or as powerful.

He unfolded the paper.

Four letters, written by Kronos. At the top of the paper, in red Cyrillic script, were the words Top Secret, Director, First Deputy Director, Head Directorate S, SVR Only.

Handwritten under the code were the words, These letters pertain to KRONOS. Access to this document is restricted to above individuals and Generals Leon Michurin and Alexander Tatlin. 7th December 1995. Head Directorate S.

Kurt smiled and said quietly, “All that effort to get four letters.”

He slid Nikolai’s paper next to his paper. The four letters were now alongside the ten numbers. Combined, they revealed a global military grid reference that pinpointed one square meter in Germany’s vast Black Forest. Underneath soil on that spot was an empty metal box, placed there by Kronos. The dead-letter box was the only means to contact the German assassin. Now that Schreiber had the full code, he could deposit a message in the DLB instructing Kronos that he wanted to meet him.

At that meeting, he would order the assassin to kill the traitor who wanted to betray the secret of Slingshot.

Will walked up the stairs to his third-floor apartment, unlocked the door, opened it as far as he could until it hit a large packing box, squeezed through the gap, and shut the door behind him. More packing boxes lined the corridor leading to a tiny kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a living room. He switched on the light and moved between the boxes, careful not to hit them with the two bags he was carrying. He dropped one of the bags in the kitchen and entered the living room. Unlike the other rooms in the property, the living room was quite large and contained an Edwardian mahogany three-piece suite and chaise longue; antique rugs that he’d bought in Mongolia; free-standing shelf units containing vinyl LPs and rare secondhand books; a gilt-framed oil reproduction of J. M. W. Turner’s Fighting Temeraire; a side table containing a Garrard 501 turntable, a stereo amplifier, and a German chinoiserie clock; and a dining table that could seat six but had never done so since he’d bought it. The place was also cluttered with more packing boxes that he’d yet to open because he hadn’t had time to do so, despite having moved in a month ago.

Located in the London Borough of Southwark’s two-hundred-year-old West Square, his home was in a converted house that contained four apartments. It was nothing like his previous home, a Thames-facing penthouse, and that was precisely why he’d sold and moved here.

He turned on a wall lamp, removed his overcoat, and withdrew the item from the bag. It was an LP he’d bought from his favorite record store in Soho, and he smiled as he looked at the cover. Andres Segovia’s guitar recital including Bach’s “Chaconne.” The rare vinyl had cost him?180, but he didn’t care because he’d been searching for it for years. Reverently, he placed the disc onto the turntable and turned it on. A few seconds after the stylus had settled, the Spanish maestro’s music drowned out the sound of rain lashing against the windows.