Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Will looked at the only woman in the room.

Suzy Parks. CIA analyst. Like most of the men around her, she was wearing a thick sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. She was in her late thirties, had short black hair, was married to a rocket scientist who she’d met at a ballroom dancing class, and was four months pregnant with their first child. Patrick had talent-spotted her for the section from another Agency team one year before. He was drawn not only to her photographic memory and brilliant analytical brain, a brain that had been used on some of the Agency’s most complex cases during her thirteen years as a desk officer, but also to a peculiar talent: she could go without sleep for days while continuing to function at optimum levels.

Will looked at the last person listening to the briefing.

Peter Rhodes. An MI6 intelligence officer whose role was to provide risk assessments of the section’s operations, and to act as Alistair and Patrick’s aide de camp when they liaised with Capitol Hill and Whitehall. Though no longer operational, most of Peter’s career had been in the field. He’d spent four years in Shanghai as a NOC, operating under cover as an advisor to a wealthy and powerful Chinese mogul, before undergoing operational tours as a case officer within MI6’s Russia and China teams and postings to the U.K.’s embassies in Jakarta, Abu Dhabi, Tokyo, and Washington. In his early forties, Peter was slender and had a youthful appearance, a razor-sharp intellect, and a strong sense of humor. Alistair had identified him as a potential applicant for the section one month ago, and Will had backed the appointment because he not only admired Peter’s operational experience but also liked the man.

He turned his attention to the coheads of the section. Aside from the fact that Patrick’s hair was silver, Alistair’s blond, both men looked physically similar; they were in their mid-fifties but looked ten years younger. Alistair had always been Will’s Controller, but Will had worked with both men only on his last two missions, one to hunt down a senior Iranian general, the other to prevent war between Russia and the United States, and during that time he’d discovered that they had a deep and dark history of collaboration that started when they were junior field officers and had witnessed the capture of Will’s CIA officer father in Iran. It was only recently that Will had learned that both men had been secret benefactors to Will’s family. After his father had been tortured and executed, Alistair and Patrick had sent their own cash to Will’s mother. When she had been murdered by criminals in front of a teenage Will, they funded university scholarships for Will and his sister, Sarah. They were honorable men, very experienced operators, disliked by their peers within the CIA and MI6 because of their autonomy and power, fearless, and totally dedicated to the section, its members, and the extreme nature of its work. Will respected and trusted them wholeheartedly, even though they’d repeatedly made it clear to him that they thought he was impulsive, insubordinate, uncontrollable, and a danger to himself.

“Do we have your attention, Mr. Cochrane?” Patrick was staring at Will, his expression stern.

Will nodded at the CIA officer. “Partially.”

Roger laughed.

Patrick did not. “We’re here because of you. Some of us think this is a nonstarter.”

“But some of us think differently.” Peter winked at Will. “Mind you, searching the world for a single piece of paper is a bit of a tall order.”

Will moved until he was facing the team. “It is a tall order.”

“And that’s why we’re involved.” Laith grinned and said in his deep southern voice, “The best of the best of the best .” He held his fist to his mouth and mimicked the sound of a cavalry trumpet.

“Please stop that.” Alistair turned away from the American, his disapproving schoolmasterly expression changing to one of coldness as he locked his attention on Will. “We have no starting point for this operation.”

Will ignored the comment and looked at Suzy. “What have we got on the defector?”

The CIA analyst leaned forward, cupping her hands and placing her elbows on her thighs. “Lenka Yevtushenko. Fourteen years in the SVR but not on the fast track.”

“Remit?”

“For the most part, eastern Europe.”

“Postings?”

“One, to Belarus, returned six months ago.”

“Home address?”

“We don’t know.”

“Extracurricular activities on his Belarus posting?”

“No interests, no foibles. He was a quiet man.”

“Wife, kids?”

“None.”

Will frowned. “Lovers?”

Suzy smiled. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask. Yes, one woman. A Belarusian, based in her home country.”

“Poor?”

“Yes.”

“A looker?”

“Well above average.”

“Entrapment?”

“Unlikely. Belarusians really don’t do that, plus Yevtushenko wouldn’t have been worth the risk.”

“Did he give her cash?”

Suzy shrugged. “We don’t know.”

“Loved her?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did she carry his child?”

Suzy rubbed her stomach. “I don’t know.”

“What’s your source?”

“The Agency looked at Yevtushenko a couple of years ago. He was a potential target but was soon dropped because he was deemed as too low level. We have a file on him, but it’s as slim as the data you now have.”

“Do you have his lover’s name, address?”

“Of course.”

Will nodded. “Russian movement in Europe in the last three days?”

Suzy held Will’s gaze. “Take your pick. A First Secretary Political who’s been shunted in at short notice to France after the last incumbent was in danger of enjoying Parisian life too much; a Russian front consultancy company opening up in Belgrade; a defense attache who’s moved to Berne to hill-walk in the Alps with his counterpart in the Iranian embassy. All of them SVR.”

Will shook his head. “None of them are right. What else have you got?”

The CIA analyst frowned. “That’s all I have on SVR movement.”

“Forget information we have on known SVR personnel. Think Russian military or police, past or present, business covers that would match a paramilitary IO.”

“We’ve had nearly a hundred standard Russia-related trace requests from foreign security services over the last seventy-two hours.”

“Have you seen them all?”

“I’ve made it my business to do so.”

“One of them could be our Russian team.”

Suzy was still, though her eyes were darting left and right, her mind racing.

The room was silent for ten minutes.

Then Suzy nodded. “Yesterday the BfV requested a trace on four Russian males who’d entered Frankfurt. They work for a company called Vitus.”

“Is the company legitimate?”

“Yes, it specializes in close protection and antikidnapping training programs for corporations and the media.”

“Employees listed on the website?”

“No.”

“That would be normal for this kind of firm. Why are they in Germany?”

“They’re attending a conference in Munich. A two-day event focusing on corporate risk within emerging markets.”

“Why did the German security service request the trace on them?”

“Because they bought tickets for the event two days ago.”

“That’s all?”

Suzy shook her head. “They’ve checked into the Grand Hyatt in Berlin. Seems they’ve no desire to head south.”

“Odd, but not necessarily suspicious. They might have used the conference as a pretext to enter Germany but are instead having a meeting with a client whose details they’d rather not share with the border police. Ages?”