Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

“Bloody rain’s set in for the day.” The former SAS captain poured boiling water into a teapot.

“Yes.” Joanna was not really listening to her husband. Instead she was now staring at another framed photograph that she’d just removed from wrapping paper. It was of a young boy, unmistakably Will at approximately four or five years old; standing next to him was a tall man, wearing a suit. “Must be his father,” she said to herself as she placed it on a mantelpiece. She moved to another packing case and withdrew a box. Inside it was a pristine kepi blanc, the French Foreign Legion cap awarded to recruits upon completion of their arduous training. Underneath it was a worn baseball cap that would not have fit a child much older than ten years old. Joanna frowned and wondered, why did he hide one with the other?

Robert entered the living room holding two cups of tea with one hand and his Remington in the other. “How about lunchtime I leg it to the chippy and get some cod and chips?”

Joanna smiled. “That would be nice. Plenty of vinegar, but not too much salt. You know what the doctor told you.”

Robert huffed. “Load of nonsense.” Placing the mugs down, he asked, “You think you should buy Will some houseplants? All this boys’ stuff isn’t exactly going to charm the ladies.”

“Which ladies?”

“How about some artificial plants?” Robert laughed. “At least they’d give the impression that there’s life in here.”

Joanna nodded, then turned sharply as she heard a noise in the hallway. Withdrawing her handgun from her belt, she said quietly, “Post’s arrived. Usual drill.”

They moved silently into the hallway. Robert got on one knee and pointed his shotgun at the center of the front door. Joanna walked down one side of the corridor, reached the entrance, glanced at her husband, who gave the tiniest of nods, swooped up the mail, and stepped back so she was flush against the wall.

Nothing happened.

Robert stayed in position as she carefully made her way back along the hallway. She leafed through the mail-junk, a couple of utility bills, a local council voter registration card, and a letter that was handwritten and addressed to Will Cochrane.

She opened the letter, read its contents, and said urgently, “We need to call Betty, then Will.”

Dear Mr. Cochrane,

I wonder if you’ve heeded my advice to stay away from me and my business. I hope so, because matters are soon to be concluded and it would be a nuisance for me to have to deal with any interference. As it is, you’ve inconvenienced me enough to the extent that I’ve had to divert some valuable resources to the United Kingdom.

Those resources are dedicated to watching a person you care about. They will not back down unless I tell them to do so or I instruct them to kill the person. The decision I make will be based on the choice you make. I hope for your sake it is one that prioritizes the welfare of the person you care about over your desire to gain applause from your masters.

Are you a protector of the weak, Mr. Cochrane? If so, the decision you need to make is clear.

Time will tell.

And I will be there to listen.

Yours,

William

Will felt tense and uneasy. He’d received a call from Joanna, who’d relayed the contents of William’s latest letter to him and said that Betty and Alfie were immediately moving to a new location in the U.K. Now he was watching Suzy as she sat motionless at the Auguststrasse dining table with a cell phone against her head. Two hours ago he’d asked her to run the names Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev, Kurt Schreiber, Gerlache, Francois Gilliams, Simon Rubner, and Kronos through CIA databases. She’d telephoned Langley. Five minutes ago, someone had called her back.

Mark Oates handed him a mug of black coffee. “It’s shift change in thirty minutes.”

“How’s the Russian team?”

“The same.”

“Have they had any deliveries to the hotel?”

“Can’t be certain, but we think not.”

Will nodded. “And your team?”

Mark smiled. “We’re either sitting on our arses or freezing our nuts off. Couldn’t be better.”

“That’ll change soon.” He wondered if the team’s surveillance detail was taking its toll on them. But the paramilitary officer looked alert and energized. “It’s imperative you’re able to stick to the Russians the moment they move.”

Mark took a swig of his coffee. “We know.”

“How are your daughters?”

“What?”

“They’re at university, right?”

Mark beamed. “Yeah. One’s at Exeter, the other at Newcastle. They’re loving it.”

“Expensive these days.”

“Damn right.” Mark rubbed his face. “But they’re the first in my family to do higher education. If it keeps them from having to do all-night laps of a hotel then it’s worth every penny.”

“Are you managing to find time to check they’re okay?”

“Finding time’s half the battle; getting them to answer my calls is just as hard. They want to be all grown up now, don’t want Dad pestering them. Why do you ask?”

Will hesitated. “I’m the only one in the section who doesn’t have any ties. I don’t know how the rest of you cope.”

Suzy held a finger in the air. “Peter.”

Peter Rhodes moved to the whiteboard, a marker pen in his hand.

Keeping the phone to her ear, Suzy called out, “Nikolai Dmitriev. Confirmed that he was a colonel in the KGB and subsequently was the SVR’s Head of Directorate S. Retired ten years ago and since then he’s been running a vineyard in the south of France. The French kept their eyes on him for a while before concluding he was no threat.”

Peter wrote down his name and the information Suzy had given him.

“Nothing on the Gerlache company, nothing on Francois Gilliams.”

That didn’t surprise Will. He was certain the company was a cover for an intelligence unit, the same team who’d supplied his name and home address to Alina, and that anyone allegedly working for the company would be using an alias.

“Nothing on Kronos.”

Peter asked, “You’ve checked with DIA in case it’s a weapons system?”

“I know how to do my job. I’ve told Langley to check in all the right places, including DIA. Kronos has no meaning to us.”

“Except one.” Will smiled. “In Greek mythology, Kronos was a Titan who carried a scythe that could slice open the sky. He defeated his father, the ruler of the universe, and devoured most of his sons when they were babies so that they couldn’t grow up and depose him.”

Peter asked, “How on Earth do you know that?”

Will shrugged. “Peter Paul Rubens did a painting of him eating his child, Poseidon. I’ve seen the painting and read about Kronos on the plaque underneath it.”

Peter laughed. “It must be a blast hanging around you outside of work.” He turned, looked mischievous, and wrote, Kronos-the god who devoured his offspring.

Suzy said, “Kurt Schreiber. Former Stasi colonel.”

Peter spun around, his expression now serious. “Details of what he did in the Stasi?”

Suzy shook her head. “All we have is his rank. To have reached that level of seniority without his name appearing elsewhere means he must have kept his head down for most of his career.”

Peter looked at Will. “Or his identity was protected.”

Suzy frowned and said quietly to the caller, “You’re sure?” She looked at Peter. “Six months ago, Interpol sent out a flag to London, Langley, and most European agencies-if the name Kurt Schreiber emerges in the course of our work, we’re to alert Interpol immediately.”