Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

“You thought that if I got to Yevtushenko, he’d tell me that he’d been set up by the CIA team running Rubner, and that I’d quickly then link that person to you?”

Peter did not reply.

Will took a step closer. “Your treachery has put my sister’s life at risk.”

“What?”

“You gave the CIA team my name and home address. They gave that to the man who’s now in possession of the paper. He’s threatened to kill Sarah unless I back down.”

Peter looked confused. “They weren’t supposed to do that! They were just supposed to send you a message to your home, telling you to mind your own business.”

“Well, they decided to do much worse. And after you told them I was going to break into Yevtushenko’s house, they put a team in place to stop me escaping and to get me shot by the Russian cops.”

Peter shook his head. “No, no. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I told them in case there was stuff in there that you shouldn’t see-to give them the chance to get there first and sanitize the place.”

Will said between gritted teeth, “You played right into their hands. Who are they?”

Peter huffed. “I might have been played for a fool, but my mouth’s shut on that. You’re going to put me in a cell and throw away the key.” He looked around, his eyes locking on Adam, then Laith. Nodding, he looked back at Will. “It appears that you might do worse. I’ve no reason to speak to you.”

Will pointed at the flight departures board. “You can get on one of those flights. .”

Peter frowned.

“. . if you tell me who was running Rubner, the identity of the people you were working with to stop me getting closer to Yevtushenko.”

“You’d just let me walk away? I doubt that.”

“Where’s your fiancee?”

“England.” Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “Today she’s getting measured for her wedding dress.”

“You can never see her again.”

Peter lowered his hand. His face was now pale.

“You’ll be arrested if you try to set foot in the U.K.; you’ll be arrested if anyone spots you in Europe; the States aren’t an option; nor are any of the Commonwealth countries.” Will raised his voice to be heard over the din coming from the crowds around them. “It won’t be a case of just walking away. You’ll be on the run, by all accounts with very limited funds. What I’m offering you is a life of looking over your shoulder, of poverty, of living in some hellhole, petrified that at any moment your front door is going to be kicked in. But maybe that’s a better option than solitary confinement in a maximum security prison, or”-he glanced toward Laith and Adam-“a more absolute solution.”

Peter looked confused. “Why would you do that for me?”

“That question’s been plaguing me for the last twenty-four hours.” He pictured Luke’s head ripping open when he shot him in Gdansk. “Maybe I’m just sick of doing the dirty work.”

Peter opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.

“You need to make a decision!”

The crowds were getting thicker, and though travelers brushed against the two MI6 officers, they stayed still.

“Decision, Peter.”

Beads of sweat ran down Peter’s face, and he screwed his eyes up as if he were in pain.

“Time is running out!”

“Okay!” Peter’s breathing was fast. More quietly, he repeated, “Okay.”

“Who was running Rubner?”

Peter stared directly at Will, his expression imploring. “Somehow, can you get a message to my fiancee? Tell her I’m truly sorry.”

Will nodded.

“Thank you.” Peter looked at the flight schedules. “Can’t go anywhere West, nowhere first world, nowhere with a U.K. extradition treaty in place.” He smiled bitterly. “You’re right; it has to be a hellhole.” His breathing slowed. “Look after the section. They need you.”

“That’s not your concern anymore. You keep your mouth shut about everything you know. And if you warn off Rubner’s CIA handlers, I’ll personally come after you.”

Peter nodded. With resignation, he said, “I’ve no reason to speak to them now. After all, keeping their secret has got me to this place. There’s four of them. All are very senior Agency case officers, with a lot of power and autonomy.” He held out his hand.

Will hesitated, then shook it. “If ever you see me again, run.” He lowered his voice and said with genuine concern, “Look after yourself.”

Peter smiled. “I’ll try my best.” Glancing around, he laughed. “I don’t think the arrivals section of the country I’m headed to is going to look anything like this.” He looked at Will one last time. “Rubner’s CIA handlers have the code name Flintlock.”

Kurt Schreiber walked along the corridor toward the door, which was flanked by two armed bodyguards. He entered a vast, sumptuous room containing leather sofas and armchairs, original paintings by Leopold Bode, Hans Durer, and Matthias Grunewald, a large log-burning fire that had been prepared by one of the twelve-bedroom property’s housekeepers, and walls clad in oak panels that had been taken from a nineteenth-century Prussian man-of-war. Extending down one side of the room was a forty-yard balcony where, during the summer months, he would frequently spend time eating or drinking with his numerous shady business associates while admiring southeast Germany’s Bavarian Alps and overlooking the valley two thousand yards beneath them. But today, the sliding glass doors were shut to prevent the icy mountain air and snow from entering the warm residence.

On the border with Austria, the isolated mountaintop property was Schreiber’s favorite retreat. Because it was extremely difficult to access and was at all times guarded by at least twenty armed men, it was also his most secure.

The old man sat in his usual armchair by the fire, poured a glass of Camus Cognac Cuvee, took a sip of the liquor, and rested his glass on the coffee table, next to a plate of Abendessen bread and a file. The room had an air of serenity, Heinrich Schutz’s Zwolf geistliche Gesange played softly in the background.

He tore off a chunk of bread, raised it to his mouth, and paused midair. He imagined over one hundred million men, women, and children eating their last mouthful of food before spewing blood-drenched vomit and dying.

That’s what would happen if Slingshot was enacted.

Schreiber chuckled and tossed the bread into his mouth.

He leaned forward and opened the file. Six sheets of paper were inside. He placed them next to each other and stared at the men’s profiles and their attached photos.

General Leon Michurin, Russian, deceased. Seven years ago, his alcohol-abused body took its final gulp of vodka.

General Alexander Tatlin, Russian, deceased. The chain-smoker had died last year in agony from lung cancer.

Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev, Russian. The former senior SVR officer had moved to southern France ten years ago to grow wine, while keeping his mouth firmly shut about his previous life in espionage.

General Joe Ballinger, American. The retired four-star general, who’d previously spent all of his adult life on a war footing, now spent most of his days analyzing his vast investment portfolio from his New York mansion.

CIA officer Thomas Scott, American. A man who’d wanted to be head of the CIA, got passed over for promotion, and resigned from the Agency in disgust. Since then, the Yale-educated former operative divided his time between teaching at Harvard, sitting as a trustee on the boards of several charities, and participating in political think tanks.

Admiral Jack Dugan, American. After retirement from the military, Dugan had used his military connections to carve out a lucrative career in the arms industry. His wealth had not only enabled him to buy a three-million-dollar home in Potomac, Maryland, it had also funded his successful U.S. senatorial campaign.