Matthew Dunn - Spycatcher

Ben seemed to consider the question and then smiled wider. “Filling in my last tax returns.”

Patrick said nothing for a moment before slowly turning his attention toward the third man and nodding at him.

“Julian Garces, ex-U.S. Air Force special operative. Currently deployed in the CIA with a guy who likes shopping and a guy who can’t get laid.”

The three SOG men laughed again, and this time Will saw a slight smile emerge on Patrick’s face.

Julian was evidently Hispanic and was as tall and sinewy as Laith. He had dark, cropped curly hair and a scar down one whole side of his face. He reminded Will of the ancient and lethal Iberian warriors he’d seen depicted in paintings.

Julian’s laugh slowly receded until his face grew serious. He looked straight at Patrick. “I’ve killed ninety-seven men, which is only three less than Laith and only seven less than Ben. Add all of those deaths together, and you’ve got the number of men Roger’s killed.” His eyes looked cold. “Like my friends, I’ve been in almost every overt and covert American war that’s happened during my adult life. If you want to ask me, the hardest thing I’ve ever done is spend three months in a village in northern Afghanistan teaching medicine and other survival skills to the women and children and elders, protecting them day and night, and then having to walk away from that village when my job was done, only to see the place destroyed by Taliban guerrillas a few days later.”

Ben nodded.

So did Laith.

The three men looked at Patrick and then at Will with icy gazes.

Will held their gaze before turning to address Patrick. “They’ll do.”

“Will is the intelligence officer who is running the operation.” Patrick was sitting on the dinner table. The man he was speaking to was sitting on a chair in the center of the room. “Do you understand?”

“It’s not a difficult thing to comprehend,” Roger replied.

“Good.” Patrick nodded. “Will’s British. Could that be a problem for you?”

“Only if he has a problem with the fact that I’m of German descent.”

Will laughed.

“I’m sure that he doesn’t have a problem with that.” Patrick’s words were rapid and not jocular. “Are Laith, Ben, and Julian now bedded down?”

“Why would you feel the need to ask about my men, Patrick?”

“I don’t have such need. I simply have a need to hear how you respond to me.”

“Then you should now know that despite your profile I have no desire to be unduly deferential to you.”

“Which in turn would mean you wish to project independence and control.” Patrick slapped his hands together. “I need that.”

“What a man like you needs is rarely shared with people like me.”

Will turned from the window and looked at Roger. He walked toward the middle of the room, grabbed a dining chair, and spun it around to sit opposite Roger. Despite being seated, the man before him was obviously quite tall, but Will was pleased to note that Roger betrayed no obvious signs of being a special operations officer. Will could tell that Roger was visibly older than his men, and even though he was clearly a handsome man, with short straw-colored hair, there was something in his face that spoke of a lifetime of living with extremes.

Will nodded once. “I can tell you exactly what I want.”

Roger regarded Will for quite some time, then frowned. “You’ve been in the military. Special Forces, I would say.”

“How do you know that?”

Roger waved a hand. “You’ve got dead eyes.”

Will had been told by others that his eyes had died long before he joined the army. “French Foreign Legion. I was a GCP operator.”

Roger said, “When I was in DEVGRU, we did some cross-training with you guys. We taught you underwater insertion techniques. You taught us how to kill people while diving through the sky in a HALO insertion.”

Will sighed. “Is it of any particular relevance what units we previously worked in?”

Roger shook his head, smiled before going serious again. “I come from a family of fighters who all served different organizations and flags. I’ve served the country of the United States as a DEVGRU SEAL and now as a team leader in the CIA SOG. My father and my uncles served deep behind enemy lines in Vietnam with the Australian SAS and on secondment with the secret MACV-SOG. And my grandfather served as a paratrooper in Germany’s elite First Fallschirmjager Division in most of the European and Russian hellholes that existed for Wehrmacht soldiers in World War Two.” He smiled. “They’re all dead now, and all I have to remember them by is a bunch of medals and photos and citations.” He looked at Will. “But I know that none of us-my forefathers, their brothers, or me-has fought for our organization or our country. We’ve all fought for the man by our side.”

Will glanced at Patrick, then turned back to Roger. His first impressions of Roger were very positive. “I’m going to give you every single detail about this operation, and I have a very specific reason for doing so. There is a strong possibility that I will be eliminated by the man we seek. If that happens, the operation must continue, and you will be in charge in the field.”

Roger shrugged. “That’s fine by me. I just need to know my objectives.”

Will smiled briefly without taking his eyes off the paramilitary officer. “You have two primary objectives: monitor a woman while she tries to make contact with our target and then help me seize the target when he reveals himself. You may have secondary objectives, but they will be determined subject to on-the-ground developments.”

Roger nodded almost imperceptibly.

Patrick spoke. “Unless something catastrophic happens, you take your orders from Will rather than me.”

Will snapped his fingers. “Forget that.” He looked at the man’s face. “Forget orders. All I need to know is this: Can you and I work together?”

Roger placed his hands neatly together and then nodded. “I made up my mind about you the moment you sat down before me. You look like you know what you’re doing. The only thing that concerns me”-his words slowed-“is that you do not appear to fear your own death.”

The following morning Will and Roger entered Croatia. They took a taxi from the country’s main airport in outer Zagreb, and within twenty minutes they had arrived at the five-star Regent Esplanade, on the city’s Antuna Mihanoviceva. Roger got out of the car first and walked quickly into the imposing hotel. Will stayed in the vehicle, fiddling with bills to pay for the drive. When he was satisfied that Roger was in position, he handed the cash across to the driver, grabbed a bag, and made his own way into the Regent.

Will looked around the elegant, spacious reception area and spotted Lana in a corner sofa area. He walked casually up to her and kissed her on both cheeks. He had a smile fixed on his face and hoped that to anyone else in the hotel he looked like Lana’s husband or lover.

When they were seated, Will said quietly, “You’ve checked in?”

“Yes.” Lana gestured to take in their surroundings. “I’ve never stayed in a place like this. My room is lovely.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. You won’t be here long.”

She was dressed in a suit with a short, boxy jacket, a slim skirt, and leather pumps, with a gold silk scarf carefully wrapped around her throat. Her hair was pinned up high to reveal her stunning Arabic features. He felt instantly attracted to her and for a moment wondered how it would feel to genuinely be Lana’s lover. He decided it would feel good.

“Do I have your approval?” Lana raised an eyebrow, crossed her legs, and placed her hands in her lap.