Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

He’d arrived here last night. Tomorrow his intention was to head farther east along the mountains. He estimated he could be clear of the range in ten days, at which point he would move south toward warmer climes.

As arduous as the journey was, he believed it was essential that he travel this way, that he had to avoid easier modes of transport and routes in case he was challenged while using them. It was vital that he remain alone and go places where no one in their right mind would wish to try to track him.

But being here had made him realize that this type of life was not for him.

He kept his head low as he forced his body through the high-altitude wind to reach the shack’s adjacent stable. Opening the door, he moved to the pony he’d bought yesterday from a tribesman in a lowland village. Though the pony’s head was bowed and her demeanor miserable, he knew that she was considerably more used to the mountain elements than he was. She gave a welcoming snort as he brushed his hand against her neck. “Good girl. Good girl.”

He put a rope onto the pony and guided her out of the stable. Removing the leash, he clapped his hands and shouted, “Go on, now!”

She neighed, remained still.

Peter slapped her on her hind leg and repeated, “Go!”

The pony looked at him, then began walking down the mountain slope, carefully picking a trail between boulders. He didn’t know if she’d survive the thirty-mile route to the village, or if she’d even remember the way there, but he did know that she’d die if he left her here.

He returned to the shack, forced the door shut, and rubbed snow off his stubbly and grimy face. Sitting down at the table, he removed his cell phone from his luggage and saw that it had one bar of signal. He sighed with relief-one bar was all he needed. He rubbed his numb hands to aid circulation and get his fingers working. They throbbed with pain as he slowly typed an SMS.

Cochrane found nothing of interest at Lenka’s house. We’ve all been recalled to London. Operation deemed a failure and has been terminated. Cochrane deployed on other matters. Our secret is safe.

He pressed Send and smiled as he saw his phone flash red, meaning its battery was about to die. He had no way of charging it, but that didn’t matter, as this was the last time he’d use it. The message successfully transmitted, he tossed the phone to one side.

It was the only way he could think of to try to make amends for his treachery. One of the Flintlock operatives would receive the message and advise his colleagues that Will was no longer hunting Yevtushenko. They’d believe that their sacrifice of Yevtushenko, to get more of Rubner’s stream of intelligence, remained a secret.

But Will knew all about Flintlock and their role in trying to kill him. Peter wondered what he was going to do to them.

He thought about his fiancee, Helen. He didn’t think she’d be unduly worried that she’d not heard from him. Helen knew he was an MI6 officer and was used to the fact that he was frequently away on missions and sometimes not contactable. No doubt she was busying herself with further preparations for their marriage. He wondered what wedding dress she’d choose, and pictured the beautiful woman walking up the church aisle toward him. They hadn’t yet drawn up a list of people they wanted to invite to their wedding-most of them would be family and friends, a handful would be colleagues. Perhaps Alistair would be in the audience, maybe Will too.

The image faded.

As he looked around, he couldn’t imagine being farther away from that day.

His actions had ruined his career, his honor, and his love of a decent woman.

There was nothing else for him now.

He removed his hemp jacket. All he now had on was a cotton shirt, trousers, and boots. After stamping out the remains of the fire and turning off the oil lamp, he exited the shack and scrambled down two hundred yards of the mountain slope. That was far enough; within minutes he would not have the strength or will to climb back up. He sat down on snow-covered ground, facing the full blast of the subzero-temperature wind. Closing his eyes, he wondered how long it would take and whether he’d feel pain. He’d read that Napoleonic troops who’d suffered severe hypothermia while retreating through Russia had felt a moment of warmth just before it happened. He hoped that was true.

Within fifteen minutes, he was violently shivering, confused, and light-headed.

His body started to freeze.

Within thirty minutes, he was dead.

Kronos walked into the smoky bar and sat at an empty plastic table. In the style of an American diner, the place had rows of tables and benches alongside windows that faced the edge of Rotterdam’s vast seaport. Aside from the female attendant who was standing behind the bar washing glasses with a bored expression on her face, the only other people in the establishment were a group of five males; they were all wearing blue overalls, looked like tough sailors or dockworkers, and were seated at the far end of the diner, laughing, singing, and drinking Flemish gin. Outside, heavy rain descended from the night sky, noticeable through the multitude of neon lights that lit up the security gates leading to the dock and the ships and freight containers beyond them. Kronos looked at the attendant. Clearly she had no intention of waiting tables. He ordered a coffee from the bar and took the drink back to his table.

Staring at the security gates, he wondered if tonight the ship’s captain would suffer bad luck and be searched as he tried to exit the port. He wasn’t unduly worried about this, for he had backup options, though it would be a waste of valuable time.

Cars and trucks were entering and exiting the port. There were too many of them, and they were indistinguishable in the nighttime conditions, so it was fruitless trying to ascertain which vehicle belonged to the captain. He removed his attention from the security gates and gripped his coffee mug. Mathias and Wendell would now be tucked up in bed, and his wife would be reading to them. This was the second night that he’d missed their evening routine, and he hated that. His wife had been understanding when he’d told her that he’d been asked at very short notice to stand in for a sick colleague who’d had to pull out of a teachers’ conference in Amsterdam. And thank goodness his school was shut for the winter vacation, meaning he hadn’t had to make excuses for a sudden absence from work. It would have galled him to let his pupils down at a time when they were gearing up for their summer history exams. Even so, if felt wrong to be away from his family. He supposed he’d better get used to it.

A large, rough hand slapped Kronos’s shoulder. “Ernst, how the devil are you?”

The German assassin turned and looked at Jack Vogels. In German, he said, “You’re late.”

The Dutch captain replied in the same language. “Of course I am.” He grinned and pointed at the docks. “I can sail my ship across the world and arrive within a minute of when I’m supposed to arrive. It’s only when we have to deal with the idiots on land that it all goes to rat shit.” He sat at the table, placing a small canvas bag on the seat next to him. “You want a proper drink?”

“No.”

“Come on. Won’t hurt.” He clapped his hands while glancing at the bar attendant.

She rolled her eyes and sauntered over. In Dutch she muttered, “Spent too long on water and lost the use of your legs?”

Jack’s grin widened as he put his muscular arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Don’t be like that, Marijne. You know that all of me is in perfect working order.” He winked at Kronos. “Get us two large brandewijns .”