Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Finally, he answered, “Very few people call me by that name.”

She held his gaze for several seconds, nodded once, and said, “But some people do.” She stood up, disappeared out of the room, and reemerged a minute later holding a small piece of paper. She hesitated before handing it to Will.

Will examined both sides of the paper. It had been folded into quarters. One side was plain, the other contained printed black lines of text that looked as though they’d been written on a typewriter rather than anything more modern.

As Will read the note, he fought back every instinct to vomit.

To Miss Alina Petrova

Please forgive the rather crude manner in which this note was passed to you. The man who delivered it does not represent us, though we paid him to place it in your hands. We are desperate to reach out to our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Lenka Yevtushenko, because we believe he is in danger. Perhaps you have a means to forward the contents of this communication to him? We hope you do, and if so we implore you to get in touch with him with the greatest haste. The message you must relay to Mr. Yevtushenko is as follows:

We are sorry that in our business dealings with you, we misled you as to our real identities. We did that to protect you and when the time was right it was our intention to tell you the truth. That time never came due to unforeseen circumstances. No doubt you have since been told who we really are. That matters not. What does matter is that we continue to look out for your welfare and are concerned that you may now be in a vulnerable position. Be very careful because men are coming for you. The most dangerous of them is a British intelligence officer. He lives in West Square, Southwark, London.

His name is Will Cochrane.

The Lufthansa A321 Airbus touched down at Berlin’s Tegel Airport at 0920 hours. Will was sitting in business class, staring out the window at the dark clouds hanging over the airport and the rain that was pouring down from them. The men and women around him-Austrians, Germans, a Czech, two Englishmen, a Ukrainian, and three Italians-were all dressed in suits and were looking not at the airport but at the seat belt sign, waiting for it to switch off so they could stand, grab their cases, and make a dash toward whatever business beckoned them to the city.

Will had flown from Minsk to Frankfurt during the early hours. During the seventy-minute journey from Frankfurt to Berlin, he’d briefly analyzed every passenger around him. None of them were operatives. Will was glad of that because he’d needed to be alone, and he was never more alone than when he was surrounded by normal people.

As the plane taxied along the runway, he rubbed his temples. The note to Alina had confused and deeply unsettled him and had bolstered Alistair’s view that Will had too little to go on and was out of his depth. He wondered if he was doing the right thing by continuing to pursue the operation, whether the stolen SVR paper was less important than he’d thought, whether it was the right thing to do to follow his instincts and at the same time jeopardize the existence of the Spartan Section, whether he’d offered false hope to Alina, and whether the message to Alina meant he would be killed before he had a chance to get an inch closer to the truth of what was happening.

But these emotions and thoughts were also matched by anger. Knowledge of his existence within MI6 was limited to a small number of people. His home address was known to even fewer.

Someone had betrayed him.

That afternoon, Will was leaning against the wall of a short, stone-covered tunnel. Parkland was visible at either end of the tunnel, though he could see no one within the place. The heavy rainfall had driven every sensible person inside.

After checking into the five-star Steigenberger Hotel, Will had walked here, arriving nearly thirty minutes ahead of schedule, and waited.

A tall man came into view at one end of the tunnel. He stopped for six seconds, then strode quickly up to Will.

Roger Koenig was wearing a waterproof jacket, jeans, hiking boots, and a skin-colored earpiece and cord that was barely visible on one side of his face. Leaning against the wall opposite to Will, he ran fingers through his sodden hair, rubbed his hands to aid circulation, and asked, “How was Belarus?”

“Bloody freezing.” Will forced a smile.

“Did Alina talk?”

“Yes.”

“Anything of substance?”

“Difficult to know.”

Roger produced a mock frown. “Let me help. Was she a bit more effusive than you’re being right now?”

Will laughed. “Much more.” His expression became neutral. “Tell me about the Russian team.”

Roger drummed his hands against the wall. “They’re in the Grand Hyatt and they ain’t moving.”

“Sightings?”

“We’ve seen two of them but only briefly. They’re ordering room service and the two we spotted have only been down to the lobby twice.”

“Who saw them?”

“Laith and Mark.”

“What do they think?”

“They’re sure we’re looking at a team. Doesn’t mean they’re the right team though.”

“I know.”

Roger was silent for a moment before saying, “Mark has the same level of team leader experience as me. Did you put him in the section so that he could learn the ropes and then take over if I get shot?”

Will smiled, and this time it was genuine. “Exactly. I’m just waiting for you to take a bullet. Trouble is, every time you do, you recover.”

“Yeah. I’m odd like that.”

“You are.” Will became serious. “I put him and Adam in because they fit. Do you foresee a problem?”

Roger seemed to consider this. “No. Mark doesn’t seem concerned about status. He just wants to get on with the job. He’ll be fine. Plus, since when did we have any hierarchy in the section?”

“We don’t. It’s better that way.”

Roger nodded. “How long do you want us to stay on the Russian team?”

“As long as it takes. Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest.” Roger swept an arm through the air. “Germany’s home from home for me.”

“Your fatherland . .”

Roger chuckled. “Stop that.” His expression changed. “Base of operation’s the Auguststrasse apartment.”

A modern, luxury vacation home located in Mitte, the heart of Berlin’s old city. Capable of sleeping six, more if the couches were used as beds. Peter had paid for the apartment in cash and told the owner that he and his business colleagues would need the place for at least three weeks while they were in town to close a major financial deal.

“Suzy and Peter have made it all quite homey. They’ve looked like newlyweds moving into their first home.”

Will grinned. “I can’t imagine two people more unsuited to marrying each other than Suzy and Peter.”

“Yeah, and Suzy’s real husband might have something to say about it.” Roger frowned. “You think Suzy should be on the case given she’s pregnant?”

“She’s not going to be in the field.”

“Even so. .”

“Do you want to be the one to tell her that she should go home and rest?”

“No thanks.”

“I thought not. Still, we’re responsible for her.” He looked at one end of the tunnel. Rain was pounding the walkway beyond the exit. “Alistair and Patrick?”

“Back at Vauxhall Cross to ensure that the Gdansk operation hasn’t left an uncomfortable audit trail.”

“Okay. How are you operating your team?”

“While the Russians are static, it’s been easy. Two on at all times-one in the lobby; one making circuits outside.”

“Cover?”