Matthew Dunn - Spycatcher

Harry rubbed his hands together rapidly and smiled mischievously. “You’re not a secret policeman, are you, Charles?”

“No, I don’t think I’d make a very good policeman, secret or otherwise.”

Harry uncrossed his legs and leaned in close. His voice was a near whisper. “True. And they wouldn’t have someone like you in their ranks, would they? Not someone who has your kind of problems.” He pulled back quickly while chuckling and then clapped his hands together. “Now, I think I have something for you,” he boomed.

“Am I going to be impressed?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I hope so. You asked me to find a man, and I have done so. The defense attache at the Iranian embassy in Zagreb. He’s an IRGC officer.”

Will nodded in appreciation. “How long has he been posted there?”

“Sixteen months. It’s his first posting in Europe.” Harry widened his eyes, and the look in them seemed expectant. “He’s only regular IRGC, mind you-a major in their army, nothing unusual. I believe that is what you wanted?”

“It is. What’s his function?”

Harry reached for his drink. “He’s doing what a regular DA in his position should be doing: schmoozing with the Croatian military, trying to persuade them to sell military equipment to the Iranians or maybe buy from them, and most likely drinking with them until the wee hours.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-one.”

Will resisted the urge to smile. The man’s profile was perfect for what he needed. His age was an additional bonus, as it could mean that the man was still eager to prove his worth to his superiors in Tehran. “That is very good, Harry. Very good indeed.”

Harry grinned widely again. “See, I knew I could be a valuable asset to you.” He pointed a finger at Will. “Hey, the woman Lana-have you spoken to her yet?”

Will lifted his drink. “If I use her, she will be oblivious to the fact that she is working for British intelligence.”

Harry nodded and chuckled again. “I like the way you work.” He finished his whiskey and checked his watch. “Well, unless there’s anything else we need to cover, an old man requires his bed. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing else right now.” Will reached out and placed a hand over Harry’s watch. “But I need you to stay in touch with me. I need you and your contacts to keep eyes and ears open for any sign of Qods Force activity in Central Europe. Anything at all, even if it’s just rumor.”

“Of course.” Harry placed his own hand on top of Will’s fingers, the mischievous look on his face having returned. “Of course.” He grinned even wider and laughed harshly as he broke Will’s grip and stood. “I do forgive you for holding a knife to me. But you should know that I never make threats. If I ever have cause to put a knife against your throat, the next thing you will feel is unimaginable pain as my blade slices through your life.”

“I don’t think so, Harry.” He smiled and regarded Lace. He saw the man’s humor, his deviousness, his business-sharp intellect, and his wisdom. He also saw hope and sorrow in the man’s eyes. He saw a man he could not help but like. He nodded. “I, too, never give threats, but I do give warnings to those I feel are capable of redemption. Remember that, Harry. Because I have just warned you.”

“We all arrived late last night.” Patrick poured coffee into a mug.

Will rubbed a hand against his chin and felt morning stubble on his face. He took a gulp of his own coffee and looked out a window toward Zurich’s Limmat River. They were in a CIA residential house on Rossligasse near the Swiss city’s old town quarter. He turned, walked to the dining table, and picked up a piece of paper. “So these are the others?”

“Indeed.”

Will read the paper.

Roger Koenig. Age thirty-eight. Married, three children. Seven years CIA Special Operations Group. Two years as team leader. Deployments include China, North Korea, Borneo, Russia, and Uzbekistan. Five SOG commendations at “outstanding” grade. Previously eight years SEALs, five of which DEVGRU. Global operations. Specialist in business cover, surveillance, all arms, disruptions, hostage rescue, HAHO and HALO parachute insertions, transportation (specifically maritime). Fluent in Mandarin, Russian, and German.

Laith Dia. Age thirty-four. Divorced, two children. Five years SOG. Deployments include Syria, Zimbabwe, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq. Previously five years Delta. Global operations. Twice recommended for Congressional Medal of Honor. Previously NCO in Rangers. Specialist in all arms, protection, hostage rescue, mountaineering, surveillance, disruptions, communications. Qualified sniper. Fluent in Arabic and operational Farsi.

Ben Reed. Age thirty-three. Single. Four years SOG. Deployments include Colombia, Mexico, Afghanistan, India, and Somalia. Previously nine years Green Berets. Global operations. Specialist in medicine, explosives, communications, HAHO and HALO insertions, hostage rescue, protection, surveillance, offensive and defensive driving, all armed and unarmed combat. Operational Arabic, Urdu, Pashto, and Spanish.

Julian Garces. Age thirty-one. Single. Three years SOG. Deployments include Sudan, Russia, North Korea, Pakistan, Iran, and China. Previously seven years Air Force Combat Control Team. Global operations. Specialist in communications, HAHO and HALO, combat scuba diving, demolitions, all armed and unarmed combat, offensive and defensive driving. Fluent Spanish and operational Russian and Farsi.

Will placed the paper back down on the table. “Their experience looks perfect. I presume Roger will act as their team leader on this operation?”

Patrick poured more coffee into his mug. “He will.”

“I want to meet the team.”

“Of course. I’ll get them here now.”

Will shook his head. “Not all of them together. Get Laith, Ben, and Julian here first. We’ll meet their team leader separately.”

Will looked at the three men before him. He knew that to most people they would appear, from a distance, to be average men, and that was as it should be, for these men spent most of their time hiding among the ranks of normal people. But Will could immediately tell that the three specialists sitting in the Rossligasse house were anything but average men. He could see that they were highly professional. He could see that they were killers.

Patrick was leaning against a wall, also studying the men. “Introduce yourselves.”

“Laith Dia.” This came from the man on the left and was spoken in a deep, rich voice. The American looked tall, sinewy, and very strong. He had striking straight black hair and jet-black eyes. His physique, features, and name suggested that he was of both Moorish African and Levantine Arab heritage.

“Why did you join the CIA, Laith?” Patrick folded his arms.

Laith pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “To help senior officers like you get out of the shit.” He blew smoke. “Plus, in Delta we got to travel a lot, but it was always a quick in and out of places.” He smiled. “In this job we get to mix much more with the locals. It gives me the chance to take in the sights and shop for presents for my kids.”

Patrick nodded at the man in the center.

“Ben Reed.” The man was not large and looked like a lawyer or a doctor rather than a Special Forces-turned-CIA paramilitary man. He had immaculate blond hair and a fixed grin showing perfect teeth. “And before you ask”-he also sounded Harvard-educated-“I joined our service to impress women. But nobody told me back then that I had to keep my job a secret from them.”

The three men laughed, but Patrick did not. He pointed at Ben. “I wasn’t going to ask you that. My question is, what’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, in either Special Forces or the CIA SOG?”