Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

He’d been certain that the pilot would be registered with the site, a portal that was only available to Dutch nationals who were involved in Holland’s aviation industry. But if it’d turned out that the pilot wasn’t an existing member, Kronos would have used his name, passport number, and aviation ID to register. There’d been no need-the man had been a member since he’d earned his wings five years ago.

Kronos took a swig of his coffee as he was directed to a new page. After entering a date, he stared at the information before him. One entry told him exactly what he needed to know.

After logging out of the site and deleting his Internet browsing history, he exited the cafe. Forty minutes later, he was standing in a pay phone in Frankfurt Hauptwache train station. He called a number in Holland, gave the man who answered six letters followed by the number he was calling from, then hung up. Five seconds later the pay phone rang.

He answered and spoke to the man for two minutes before concluding, “I may have to fire a lot of rounds, so you’ll need to make large custom magazines. But it’s crucial the magazine doesn’t unbalance the weapon.”

He called another Dutch number, repeated the same security routine with six different letters, and when the man called him back he gave him precise instructions, ending with “No bigger than a lighter. And I’ll need spares to test their effect.”

Replacing the handset, he walked briskly across the concourse and boarded a train headed to Stuttgart. As the train pulled out, a couple and their two young children paused by the empty seats in front of him. The mother said to Kronos, “Everywhere back there’s full. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“I must warn you though-my kids are on a high because we took them to the zoo today. I’d understand if you’d prefer quieter companions.”

Kronos laughed. “I’ve got twins. I can sleep through anything. Please, take the seats.”

He closed his eyes. Soon he’d be back in the Black Forest and home with his children. And no doubt they’d be on a high when they saw him. After he cuddled his sons, he’d pretend to be stern with them and say that they needed to finish their homework before their bath time. If they were good, his reward would be the two nineteenth-century German wooden soldier toys he’d bought them.

He imagined their faces lighting up as they unwrapped the brown paper packaging and looked at the Prussian guards.

The soldiers’ faces were stoic, noble, with integrity. They looked like they had a job to do.

Just as he did.

He thought about some of the most challenging assassinations he’d conducted. None of them had been as complex as the one he was now planning.

But that didn’t matter, because he knew exactly what he was doing and was in no doubt that he’d be able to get close enough to his target to smell the man’s fear.

Will walked slowly along the banks of the river Spree, adjacent to several hundred yards of the remains of the Berlin Wall. A fine rain started to descend, and he pulled up the collar of his overcoat and put his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t moving toward any destination, just needed time to think-aside from traveling back to Germany, he’d done little else since his conversation with Geoffrey Pepper.

Part of him felt anger. He was certain that Peter Rhodes had given Rubner’s CIA case officer Will’s identity and home address, had wittingly or unwittingly set in motion a sequence of events that had led to his sister needing to go into hiding, and had betrayed knowledge of Will’s intention to break into Yevtushenko’s house.

But he also felt confused and sad. Peter was naturally likable, smart, irreverent, yet thoroughly professional. And he was courageous. Despite immense danger to himself, his service as a NOC had required him to play the part of an advisor to a murderous businessman with a nerveless performance. He was a natural actor, and Will now wondered if he used that skill to hide a less pleasant aspect of his personality. He decided that wasn’t the case. Peter could be a chameleon when in the field, but when he was surrounded by MI6 officers he was himself.

He leaned against the remains of the Berlin Wall, trying to decide what to do. If he involved Alistair, the Controller would send men to grab Peter, take him back to the United Kingdom, and put him on secret trial. That would almost certainly result in the officer being given life imprisonment. Will could put two bullets in his head. When the truth came out, nobody would question his action. But even though Peter deserved both, neither decision seemed right.

He stayed still for fifteen minutes, allowing rainwater to wash over his face as he stared at the river. Most of the time he rigorously protected his independence and ability to make decisions on his own. But occasionally there were moments when he wished he could walk away and let others go through the anguish of trying to decide the solutions to situations like these. Now was one of those moments.

But he had to make a decision.

He reached for his cell phone, hesitated, then called Roger.

Laith grabbed an empty mug and headed toward the safe-house kitchen. “I’ve just had a call from Roger. Will’s on his way back.”

Peter asked, “Did he get access to the Rubner files?”

Laith shrugged. “Didn’t say.” He called out, “Oh, and Peter. Will wants to meet you in one hour in the lobby of the Steigenberger Hotel. Alone.”

Laith called Will. “He’s on the move, on foot at the moment but looks like he might be trying to hail a taxi. Adam’s mobile. If he does get a cab, we’ll stick to him.”

Sixty minutes later, Will was in the departures section of Berlin Brandenburg Airport. The newly constructed international airport was bustling with travelers. Standing in the center of the concourse was Peter Rhodes, oblivious to the presence of Will, Adam, and Laith. He was motionless, staring at the flight departures board.

Will looked at his paramilitary colleagues. They were apart, fifty yards beyond Peter. He nodded at Laith, sighed, and navigated his way through the crowds. “Hello, Peter.”

The MI6 officer turned quickly, shock on his face. But then he smiled. “So many destinations to choose from.”

“I don’t envy you.”

Peter returned his gaze to the board. “I’ve got a passport, a credit card, and have no idea what I’m doing. But I did know that I didn’t fancy meeting you at the Steigenberger Hotel.”

Will was silent.

Peter muttered, “I suppose the choice of destination will be made for me. Saves me a lot of hassle.”

Will moved in front of him. “Why did you do it?”

Peter’s eyes flickered mischievously. “Because I’m a bastard.”

“No, you’re not.”

Peter lowered his head, seemed to be considering Will’s response. “I got a lot of brownie points for distributing the Rubner intelligence. It got me promoted, an increase in salary.” He looked up. “I’m getting married in a few months. My fiancee and I need every penny we can get.”

“So you decided that you couldn’t let anyone know that Rubner had tricked us and that your career had been accelerated on the basis of a lie?”

“That pretty much sums it all up.”

Will shook his head. “Peter, you could have just been honest. You’ve had a great career. You’d have been promoted anyway.”

“Maybe.” Peter’s smile faded. “Trouble is, one little lie follows another little lie and soon you suddenly realize you’ve created one big lie and there’s no way back. I should have distanced myself from them . But they were insistent. We gave Rubner the identity of Yevtushenko and the means to contact him, hoping that Yevtushenko would disappear and no one would be the wiser. We should have done so with SSCI approval, but we knew the Senate would never have given it to us. So my CIA friends made their own decision. I’d love to tell you that they did so without my knowledge, but that would be untrue.”