Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Up to the moment he was walking through Cambridge’s shopping district, saw a man try to grab a young woman’s handbag, watched the woman resist, saw a knife, and heard the victim yelp as she fell to the ground clutching her blood-covered tummy. He’d dropped his books, chased the man, grabbed him, and slammed him into a wall with sufficient force to not only make him unconscious but also fracture his skull.

At the moment the man’s head caved in, the euphoria had vanished.

Now, as he sat waiting for a killer to enter his home, he doubted it would ever return.

No other memories came to him. He tried to think about the operation, about what could possibly be happening, but he couldn’t concentrate. Time dragged.

Two A.M. He couldn’t hear anything now. No passing cars, nothing.

Three A.M. His body craved sleep, but he kept staring at the door, knowing that it would be in the early hours that the man would most likely come for him.

Four A.M. He heard a scream, flinched, grabbed the hilt of his knife, then released it as he realized the cry had come from an urban fox.

Five A.M. His back and shoulder muscles throbbed from lack of activity.

Six A.M. A door opened somewhere in the building, followed by rapid footsteps. Then the downstairs front door opened and closed. Will knew that it was one of his neighbors going to work-David, a recently divorced mortician who usually left at this hour and always did so in a manner that suggested he was late. Three weeks ago the chubby man, who had taken to rolling his own cigarettes and cooking his way through a famous French chef’s book, had met Will in the lobby, introduced himself, and given Will his business card “in case of need.”

Six forty. Another door opening and closing. A woman in heels. That would be Phoebe, a thirty-something art dealer who loved champagne, middleweight boxing matches, and Chinese food, and who rarely went to work without a hangover. She’d met Will in the rather embarrassing circumstances of kneeling by the letter slot in his front door one evening and screaming in a drunken voice, “I know you’re in there, you bastard! You can’t fuck me and leave me!” It was only when Will had opened the door that Phoebe had realized that Will wasn’t the previous occupant, a cad called Jim who’d sold Will the apartment in a hurry.

Six fifty. Retired major Dickie Mountjoy, former Coldstream Guards officer and now retiree, was leaving his home at exactly the same time as he did each morning. Dressed in a suit and moleskin overcoat, and always carrying an immaculately rolled umbrella regardless of conditions, he would be taking a ten-minute walk to his local newsagents, which opened at seven A.M., would purchase a copy of The Daily Telegraph, and would then march on to the Imperial War Museum, formerly Bedlam Asylum. There, he would sit on one of the grounds’ benches and read the paper cover to cover, before walking four miles to West Norwood cemetery, standing in front of his wife’s grave, and giving her headstone a briefing on the latest news from around the world.

Major Mountjoy believed that Will was a life insurance salesman and had made it clear on their first encounter that Will’s profession was inhabited by the scum of the earth. Will had agreed and told him that he wished he’d had the discipline and courage to be a guardsman.

The West Square converted house was now empty of all, save Will.

He placed his hand over the knife’s handle and scrutinized the front door.

He heard a man whistling, a stair ledge creak. He frowned.

The whistling grew louder, as did the footsteps.

Will pulled out the knife and stood. He estimated it would take him one second to reach the door to plunge his knife into the man’s gut.

Though he wouldn’t get halfway down the hall if the man was a professional and had a gun.

The whistling stopped. Right outside his front door.

Will dared not move, had to remain silent.

The man noisily stamped, scuffed his boots on wooden floorboards, made a rustling noise, and began whistling again.

Then there was a bang that caused Will to leap sideways.

But the bang was caused by a cluster of letters being forced through the metal mail slot.

The man walked away from the entrance, still whistling as he exited the communal downstairs doorway.

A postman.

Will breathed shallowly and noisily through his nose as adrenaline pumped through his body. He pushed himself away from the wall and muttered, “Shit.”

Because his all-night vigil had been a waste of time. Providing the Russian team remained in their Berlin hotel, he reckoned he had time to spend one more night in his home, meaning he’d have to do the same routine for another twenty-four hours.

He sighed, decided he could risk making coffee, and grabbed the pile of mail. Taking it into the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle and began leafing through the letters.

Junk.

His hand became motionless.

One of the letters wasn’t junk. Handwritten on a cream envelope was his name and address. The postal stamp showed that it had been mailed from London.

Nobody sent Will handwritten letters.

Carefully he lifted the letter between forefinger and thumb and held it in midair. It felt light, though Will knew how to make letters of similar weight that could blind or poison when opened. He rotated it, and as he did so he caught the hint of a fragrant scent. Holding the envelope close to his nose, he frowned once he recognized the smell. His frown remained as the saw a water seal on the rear flap bearing the name of the stationer.

The Letter Press of Cirencester

A thought suddenly occurred to him, and it was coupled with panic. He dashed to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled aside deodorants, toothpaste, shaving gear, mouthwash, and a hairbrush. His bottle of Chanel Platinum Egoiste eau de toilette was missing. He ran into the living room, placed the letter on the dining table, and moved to his leather-covered writing desk. Inside its drawer he kept his gold fountain pen, given to him two years ago on the grounds of Versailles Palace by a Czech intelligence officer who’d placed a note inside it telling him how a terrorist unit was planning to kill the Chief of MI6. Alongside the pen would be a bottle of blue ink, a pad of high-quality writing paper, and matching envelopes.

He used the stationery to write to his sister, though she never replied.

The paper and envelopes had been purchased from the Letter Press of Cirencester.

He yanked open the drawers.

They were empty.

Turning, he stared at the letter on the table.

A letter that had been written with his pen on his stationery, and had been squirted with his eau de toilette in order to get him to do what he had just done. The message was clear.

You can’t trace me via this letter.

Knowing that someone had been into his home, anger coursed through him. He strode up to the table, grabbed the letter, briefly wondered if he should get it analyzed by a team of forensic experts at Vauxhall Cross, then said, “Fuck it,” and tore open the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper, nothing else. He eased it out, sat at the table, and held it with two shaking hands.

Dear Mr. Cochrane

I have learned from an unexpected quarter that you have made it your business to meddle in my affairs. You seek a man called Lenka Yevtushenko. You have no interest in him per se, but you are most interested in the sheet of paper that he has delivered to me-a paper comparable in size to the one you are now holding. The paper belongs to me, you have no rights over it, and I will severely punish anyone who tries to steal it from me.

I did consider speaking to you in person about this matter, in a place of my choosing, and under circumstances that perhaps would be rather more conducive to me than you. But I’m told that you are not a man to hunt. Rather than fail in an attempt to capture you and thereby drive you out of contact, I concluded that a letter to you would be a far more efficient and civilized course of action. I’m sure you agree.