Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

At the same time, Simon and his family flew to Europe, having no further use for the CIA.

Mr. Schreiber had anticipated the possibility that Yevtushenko would be pursued by the SVR and had asked Simon to arrange for a deniable team of private contractors to confront not only the Polish ABW and AW officers who’d be waiting for the SVR defector in Gdansk, but also any Russians. Mr. Schreiber also put in place a team of his own men to take possession of Yevtushenko and the code.

Simon lifted the dead-letter box out of the soil, held it in front of him, smiled, and muttered, “All that effort to find you.”

He opened the box, placed a folded piece of paper inside it, sealed the container, and returned it to the hole. After covering it with soil, he stood and looked at the Black Forest’s magnificent vista. Tomorrow, Kronos would be standing on this spot.

Later that day, Kronos would meet Mr. Schreiber, who would give him the instruction to kill the treacherous bastard who was due to testify under oath in two weeks’ time.

Men had ordered Mr. Schreiber to stop that from happening.

Because nobody could ever learn the secret behind Slingshot.

Betty Mayne sat at the kitchen table, watching Sarah attempt to peel and slice two cloves of garlic. It had taken Alfie two days to succeed in getting Sarah to accompany him to the nearest town to buy groceries. Today she’d reluctantly agreed, largely because her husband James had jokingly told her that if she didn’t go he could finally tell all their friends that he’d become the dominant partner in their relationship. It was now evening, the blue sky darkening into dusk, and Alfie was making his usual rounds of the hunting lodge’s grounds, setting his traps, watching and listening, having a smoke in the icy, fresh Highlands air, checking for anything that looked unusual, always keeping one hand close to his pistol.

Betty was wearing a thick tweed jacket, skirt, and hiking boots-clothes she’d worn to take James on a hike around the mountainous estate earlier in the day. James had cursed and wheezed and grumbled for most of the walk, but as they’d strolled alongside the loch toward the lodge one hour ago he told Betty that he’d had the best day he could remember, had decided that London life was no longer for him, recited the fauna and flora they’d seen on their route, and said that he was very worried about his wife.

He was now preparing a fire, and probably pouring himself a slug of single malt.

“Would you like me to help you, my dear?” Betty watched Sarah reach for shallots.

“You could get me a glass of wine.” Sarah’s hand shook as she held the knife. “Join me in one?”

“Not when I’m working.” Betty stood, poured a glass of Shiraz, and handed Sarah the glass. “What are you cooking?”

“I don’t know. . yet.”

“Keep it simple.”

“Simple isn’t good enough. I’m being judged by the men.”

“Actually, you’re being judged by me. The men will eat anything. They just want to see you moving.”

Sarah held the knife still. “I know.”

“What else do you know?”

“More than you!”

“I’m sure you do, my dear.” Betty moved alongside her. “Maybe just put the chicken on top of what you’ve already chopped. Onions, garlic, celery, herbs. Bit of wine. Keep it simple. Blimey, Alfie will think he’s in heaven.”

“You’re patronizing me.”

“I’m talking to you.” Betty put her hand on top of Sarah’s knife-holding hand. “Shall we slice some potatoes, saute them first, then add them to the mix?”

Sarah said between gritted teeth, “I don’t normally play the domestic housewife.”

Betty patted her hand. “Then what do you do?”

“I arbitrate corporate litigation. You wouldn’t understand.”

Betty nodded. “I wouldn’t.”

“Playing dumb?” Sarah grabbed the chicken and put it on top of the vegetables.

“Just being myself, my dear.” Betty looked at Sarah, saw that her ordinarily beautiful face was greasy and swollen, full of anxiety, tortured. She picked up Sarah’s glass of wine, took a sip, smiled, and placed the glass next to Sarah’s fingers. “Rules are much more fun when they’re broken.”

“You’re not breaking any rules. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Perhaps, but you wouldn’t understand that, my dear.”

“I. .”

“I, what?”

Sarah said nothing.

Betty grabbed six potatoes, took the knife from Sarah, and sliced the potatoes into quarters. “When he came back from the Legion, he would barely speak at first. Four of us looked after him, the same four who helped you leave your home. We washed his clothes, ironed them, fed him, and made him attend the lectures for his degree at Cambridge. It was hard. He’d become someone he didn’t like.”

“Will?”

Betty placed the potato wedges into a pan and began frying them on the stovetop. “We were ordered to do it. The logistical help we gave him wasn’t really necessary; I’d never met anyone so self-sufficient. What was necessary was that he needed to be integrated into society.”

“Ordered by whom?”

“Will thought we were friends of your father before he was killed. We let him believe that. The truth was different.”

Patrick and Alistair had been the ones who’d instructed the team.

“Why are you telling me this?” Tears ran down Sarah’s face as she put the chicken in the oven.

“Because you need to realize how selfish you are.” Betty tossed the potatoes in oil.

The comment shocked Sarah. “I’m not selfish. I just don’t know what he does!”

Betty continued cooking. “When he wasn’t studying, we’d spend time with him doing things. The four of us had a rule that none of us would talk about our prior military service, that it was essential we talk about normal life. We told him how to open a bank account, how to join the local library, how to eat in a restaurant.” She drained the oil from the potatoes. “And how to cook. In the evenings, we’d play board games with him. He became rather good at Monopoly”-she smiled-“though he did try to cheat sometimes by stealing Monopoly money and hiding it under his side of the board.”

Sarah wiped tears away and took a sip of wine. “He was like that when we were kids. Took me years to realize that he’d marked the cards we were playing with.”

Betty chuckled. “Seems he hasn’t changed.” Opening the oven door, she sprinkled the potato wedges around the chicken. “After two weeks, I told him that we were leaving. He didn’t want us to go, said that he liked us being around. I replied that he needed to start socializing with other students. So we left.” Betty leaned against the work surface, staring at nothing. “Since then, I’ve often wondered if we should have stayed a bit longer.”

“Maybe you should have done!” Sarah put her wine down. “Perhaps it would have stopped him getting involved in stuff that”-she swept an arm through the air-“screws up other people’s lives.”

Betty frowned and turned toward Sarah. “What do you think he does for a living?”

“I don’t know. But I suspect that whatever it is, it’s illegal.”

“You think he’s a criminal?”

Sarah nodded.

Betty considered this. “I suppose he is.”

Sarah muttered, “I thought so!”

Betty knew that Will would be furious with her for what she was about to say. “After all, spying is a crime in most countries.”

Sarah looked incredulous. “He’s a spy? For whom?”

“For us, silly. Britain.” Already, she regretted saying anything, though part of her knew it was the right thing to do. “He’s an MI6 officer, has been since he graduated from university.”