Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

Will turned the sheet over. A location and grid reference for an isolated mountain residence on the German-Austrian border, and a cell phone number. His heart beat fast as he pulled out his phone and called Alfie Mayne. “Please, can you meet me?”

After he ended the call, he stared at the letter again. He wondered if it was another of Schreiber’s tricks-to lure him to a place where he could easily be killed. No. There were easier places for Schreiber’s men to attack him, and he certainly wouldn’t give Will a date and a time for such an assault.

The man who’d written this note had meant what he said.

Will knew exactly who he was.

Kronos.

Two hours later, Will was in Highgate Cemetery. He was very familiar with the famous nineteenth-century graveyard, having been here often, and walked confidently through the eerie place of the dead, along narrow twisting paths, between gnarled trees, past gravestones wrapped in vines and covered in moss, through the tunnel of the Egyptian Avenue and past the Circle of Lebanon and the grave of Karl Marx.

He looked at the sky and saw that dark rain clouds were beginning to take over. Spots of rain began to hit him as he continued onward, pulling up the collar of his overcoat, moving toward a section of the cemetery that held no residents of any particular interest or notoriety. The rain became heavy.

He walked onward for twenty yards and stopped in front of a small headstone. Alfie was standing next to it, dressed in the same ill-fitting suit he’d worn when he’d helped Will collect Sarah from her home, one hand clutching flowers wrapped in sodden paper. He’d shaved his face an hour ago with his favorite cutthroat razor; bits of tissue were stuck to areas he’d accidentally cut. The former soldier nodded toward the grave. “You did me proud, son, getting my missus a place in here.”

Will looked at Betty’s grave. “I don’t think I have any pride left.”

Alfie momentarily glanced at the MI6 officer. “Can’t think that way.”

Will crouched down and smoothed fingers over the inscription on the brand-new headstone.

MY BETTY. FINALLY GRABBING A BIT OF REST.

Quietly, he muttered, “Too many die because of me.”

Alfie placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Betty wasn’t one of ’em. She was doing a job. Always loved workin’, she did. Always loved. .”

Will stood and looked at Alfie, who was fighting his emotions. “Why didn’t you have a service?”

“Letters, matey. Would’ve had to write bleedin’ letters to the family and the like. Hate writing. Plus”-he awkwardly bowed down and placed the flowers on Betty’s grave-“well, you know, I just wanted a bit of quiet with her. On my own. Just her and me, like it was when we were on honeymoon in Blackpool in the seventies.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have met you here. I’m intruding.”

Alfie gestured to the grave next to Betty’s. “You’ve as much right to be here as I do.” He smiled, though the look was bitter. “I wonder what they’d think of us, standing over them.”

Rainwater ran over Will’s face. “Maybe they’d want us to join them sometime soon.”

“You want that?”

“They’d make sure we kept on the straight and narrow.”

“And cook us a nice meal.” Alfie nodded slowly. “Yeah. Reckon we should both join ’em soon. We’ll fuck up if we stay here.”

The two men were silent for a minute.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Keep workin’. Can’t stop and think.” Alfie placed a filterless cigarette in the corner of his mouth, struck a match, and lit it. “Trouble is, I’m retired.” He removed the cigarette, covered its embers with his hand to stop the rain from extinguishing it, and placed it alongside the flowers. “There we go, my petal. You always liked a couple of cheeky drags on my cigarettes.”

Smoke wafted up from the grave for a few seconds before the cigarette became saturated and dead.

Alfie turned away from the grave. “Betty would probably say something like, ‘Revenge will give you indigestion-get on with other stuff.’ Bet she’d be right, but trouble is I can’t think of anything else. I want the bastard who did this.”

Will stared at the old SAS warrior, now retiree. He hesitated, then sighed. “I know where he is.”

Alfie’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m going to try to kill him.”

Alfie took a step toward Will. “And I’m going to help you.”

Will lowered his head. Alfie’s predictable response had prompted overwhelming sadness within him. “It’s going to be hard.”

Between gritted teeth, Alfie spat, “You think, sunshine, these old bones ain’t up for the task?”

Will was silent. Though Alfie was a foot shorter than Will, the MI6 officer knew that the broad ex-soldier still had enough power to punch him off his feet.

“Do you reckon Betty would like me to sit around watchin’ bloody daytime TV while you’re going after the bastard? After. . after. .” His lips trembled. “. . after what they did to her. . her face. . cookin’ and the like?” Tears rolled down his face. “Cookin’ like her lovely breakfasts. Oh, Jesus!”

Will placed two hands on Alfie’s arms.

Alfie shook his head wildly, more tears running down the tough man’s face. “Get yer hands off me, you poofter.”

But Will held him firm. “It’s okay, Alfie. Okay.”

Alfie shrugged his arms away, his voice quavering as he said, “No, it ain’t okay, son. It’s bleedin’ nothing like okay.”

“I know. That’s why I told you.”

Alfie exhaled slowly and reengaged eye contact with Will. “You want me to come with you?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you told me?”

“Yes.”

“Testing me? Just like selection?”

“Of course. A test to see how you reacted. Just like your old SAS selection interrogation exercises.” Will had no idea if what he was saying was the right thing, he was taking his lead from Alfie, though he knew in his heart one absolute truth: Alfie deserved to be there when he had Schreiber in his sights.

“Did I pass?”

Will smiled, felt utter compassion for his comrade-in-arms. “I know your bones still have what it takes. But there’s no going back. We’ll be walking into an armed fortress.”

Alfie asked, “You bringing other men?”

Will shook his head. “If I tell Alistair and Patrick what I know, they’ll instruct me to bring the bastard in for a trial, though privately both section heads would prefer me to put a bullet in his head. But this has escalated; the premiers of America, the U.K., and Russia want this dealt with through a judicial process. A show trial. Alistair and Patrick will lose their jobs if I tell them I’m on a kill job. I can’t put them in that position.”

“You must have men you trust who’ll keep their mouths shut.”

Will thought about Roger, Laith, Mark, and Adam. “Yes, but they were badly injured by Kronos. Worse than me. They’re still recuperating. There’s no one else, apart from you, Joanna, and Robert, but I can’t involve those two because. .”

“Yeah. They definitely ain’t got the bones for it.” Alfie’s voice strengthened. “This chap, Kronos-you going to try to take him on too?”

“No. I doubt I’d win. Plus, he’s the one who’s helping us.”

Alfie glanced at Betty’s grave and the grave next to it. “Then we keep this. . private. In any case, don’t need help from other blokes. Never have.” He smiled. “Sorry, ladies, and please excuse my language: we’re about to fuck up again.”

Will looked at the grave next to Betty’s.

His mother’s grave.

What would she think if she could see him now? Would she be angry, sad, proud, all of those things? He didn’t know. She’d died at a time when he was still a carefree boy who’d never given her any cause to worry about him-he’d excelled at school, had been a committed member of its orchestra, was in those days always smiling, was sometimes awkward in adult company but no more than most teenagers, liked to cook for her, and was never spiteful to his sister. His mother hadn’t been given the chance to know how she’d fare with a more troublesome Will Cochrane.