Matthew Dunn - Spycatcher

Will held her gaze even though he knew that Sarah would not look away. He knew that she had far too much strength to feel intimidated by him. He had always loved her for that.

Sarah moved her umbrella so that it was now covering them both. To Will’s surprise, she placed a hand against his cheek and ran her fingers gently down his face. “You think you’re a loner, Will. Maybe you are. Maybe that’s who you want to be. Maybe”-she paused-“maybe that’s what you have to be.”

Will chuckled. “I can be whatever I want to be.”

“Not in your line of work you can’t.”

He stopped chuckling. “You don’t know what I do for a living.”

Sarah brushed her fingers down across Will’s face before resting her hand on his arm. “Not exactly, no. But I can see enough to tell me that you do unusual things, hard things. And remember, I was there when it all started for you. When you had to make that terrible decision to end your boyhood and become not just a man but a man with the blood of the dead on his hands.”

“Sarah, you know why-”

She raised a finger to Will’s lips and spoke in a near whisper. “Of course I know why. I wouldn’t be alive now if you hadn’t made that decision. . if you hadn’t rescued me from them.”

The two of them were silent for a moment, and this time both broke the other’s gaze.

Will looked at the ground. “Regardless, we’re both here today for a reason. I couldn’t stop that from happening. We’re here because I failed in the past.”

Sarah cradled her fingers gently under Will’s chin and raised his head so that he was looking at her. “I look at you now and know that whatever it is you do with your life, you wouldn’t allow anything like that to happen again. I see the strength in you, the focus and the determination. And I also still see the things I saw in you when you were a boy. I still see your huge heart, your compassion, your love, your sorrow, your humor and intelligence. But I also see a man who has become not just a loner but very lonely.”

Will smiled, touching his sister’s fingers. The rain banged against their umbrella, but he ignored the sound and focused only on the moment. It was a moment he wanted to hold on to forever. It was a moment that he feared would be stolen from him, just like the few other good memories. He gripped her hand harder. His voice felt thick in his throat as he asked, “You will be okay, won’t you, Sarah?”

Sarah nodded and returned his grip. A tear ran down her cheek. “Of course I’ll be okay. I have finally come to believe that there are more good people in this world than bad. I no longer believe I need protection from imaginary ills. Even though”-she frowned-“even though I still sometimes wonder if that belief is right.” She glanced at James and said quietly, “I’ve told him everything about what happened. He fears you, but he’s not angry with you. He’s angry with himself.” She looked back at Will, and her voice sounded stronger. “He knows he could never do what you did. He knows that in the face of terrible danger, like what you faced and defeated all those years ago, he would cower and watch me die rather than risk his life to save me.” She smiled. “And as odd as this may sound to you, I love him for that, because it means he’s normal. That normality separates you and me now.”

She leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek, held him for a while, turned, and walked toward her husband. Will watched them both move away into the wilderness of the cemetery. He watched his sister until she was out of sight, then kept watching in case she returned. He desperately hoped she would. He knew she would not.

Then he looked down at the grave beside his feet. He knelt, placed the flowers on the grave, leaned forward, and kissed the headstone. He stayed still for a while and spoke quiet words of love and reverence. When he rose, he regarded his mother’s grave for what he knew would be the last time.

For all her insight into Will, Sarah had been wrong about one thing. As he approached the terraced house in London’s Paddington district, he knew that his final meeting in this city today would be with the living. Even though it was about the dead.

He knocked on the door. When it opened, a girl stood before him. Will knew she was ten years old. Will looked over her shoulder, then back at the girl. “Is your mother in?”

The girl stared at him for a moment. Her black hair hung in two braids, black ribbons woven into them. She wore a black blouse and a black skirt. She had black circles under her eyes, circles that Will knew came from crying.

The girl nodded and disappeared into the house. Will stood still and allowed the rain to hammer at his bare head.

The mother walked toward him and stopped by the open door. Like her daughter, she was dressed completely in black. Like her daughter’s, her face looked exhausted and drained by emotion. She frowned at Will.

“Mrs. Abtahi, I am a representative of the British government. I knew Soroush. He was my friend.”

He saw Soroush’s wife open her eyes wide. He saw tears wet her cheeks. He felt sick. He felt giddy with his own emotion.

He cleared his throat, glanced up at the FOR SALE sign on the house’s exterior, and looked back at the woman. “I am here to tell you that your husband helped us on certain matters. I am here to tell you that we are indebted to him. I am here to tell you that nothing we can do can in any way compensate you for your loss. But I am also here to tell you that we have taken the liberty of making arrangements to help you with your future.” He felt a surge of increased sickness rise within him, and he breathed deeply to try to calm his voice. “You do not need to sell your property. We have contacted your bank and paid off your mortgage in full. We know that this will do nothing to ease your grief. But I hope that it will unburden you of any current financial worries.”

Will looked down. The rain struck him with increased force. He wondered if he should say anything else. But then he turned and walked away.

He walked until he was out of sight of the house. When his legs became weak, he stopped and leaned against a wall. He felt as if he was going to vomit. He swallowed hard.

He knew that his decision to transfer his life savings to Mrs. Abtahi’s bank was the correct thing to do, savings that had been carefully accrued over seventeen years and amounted to more than a hundred thousand pounds. He knew that he had made the transfer with no care or desire to ease his conscience. He knew that he wished he had more money to give to Soroush’s family.

He pushed himself away from the wall, cursing the way events had unfolded in New York. He cursed the things he had to do in his job. But more than anything else, he cursed himself.

“I’m surprised that our paths have never crossed before.” The MI6 Head of Sarajevo Station lit himself a cigarette and was clearly studying Will. “Which controllerate are you working in?”

The two men were seated at a corner table of the Inat Kuca restaurant on Veliki Alifakovac in Sarajevo. It was early evening, and there were only a handful of other diners in the place.

“For the time being, the Middle East and Africa Controllerate.” Will glanced at a menu. “But that’s only temporary. They’ve got me hopping between different desks at the moment. Apparently I’m to be posted overseas somewhere soon, so I’m currently just filling in time doing whatever’s asked of me.” He sighed and looked up.

The station chief continued to analyze Will. The man was in his late forties and had the air of leadership but also looked as though he had become tired over time.

Will put down his menu. “What about you, Ewan?”