Matthew Dunn - Spycatcher

“Probably not.”

The medical man smiled again. “So why bother asking? You know you must leave this room. And you know that a diminutive fellow like me wouldn’t be standing here without having other larger people within an arm’s length. So let’s take those first steps.”

Will ran a hand over his head. His hair felt clean and clearly had been washed. He stared at the man, feeling very calm. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

Will stepped out of the room and into a corridor. Three other men, all of them big and carrying nightsticks, were standing there. They said nothing as the small man led Will thirty meters before stopping.

The man pointed at a door to the right of the corridor. “You need to go in there. My job is done.” He shook his head. “Three bullets,” he said quietly. “You should have stayed in bed.”

Will smiled and also spoke quietly. “I’m grateful for anything you’ve done to assist my recovery. If things go badly here for your people, I will remember that.”

The man frowned again. Will turned and opened the door.

The room before him was large and totally empty. Windowless. A solitary man stood on the far side, leaning against a wall. He wore suit trousers, a white shirt, and no tie. He was tall, slender, and silver-haired, and he looked to be in his fifties.

Will stepped forward. “Hello.”

“Hello back at you.” This man also had an American accent. He swept a hand in front of him. “Make yourself at home.”

Will looked around the room. He walked to the wall opposite the man, turned, and eased himself down to sit on the floor. He partially stretched his legs out before him and clasped his hands over his lap. “Do you have any tea?”

“What?”

“A cup of tea. That would be quite nice.”

“I’m sure it would.” The man did not move. “Why are you sitting?”

“I can stand if you prefer.”

“No, no. Stay where you are.” The man chuckled a little. “It’s just that most people in your situation would prefer to stand, and generally they choose to do so in the center of a room.”

“Because they wish to project strength to hide their fear or any inclination toward subservience.”

“Meaning you’re doing the opposite?”

“Maybe I’m just tired from the walk here.” Will patted a leg. “I get the feeling I haven’t exercised for a few days.”

The man slightly adjusted his position against the wall. He put his hands into his trouser pockets. He seemed to be observing Will very closely. “No. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Will shrugged.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

Will smiled. “Nobody of particular consequence. Just a tourist who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The man adjusted his position again. “When we found you, you were carrying no form of identity. Ditto your three dead colleagues.”

Will nodded slowly, then widened his eyes. “That’s great. It means I can be whoever I want to be.”

“If you like. Who would you like to be right now?”

Will thought about the question and smiled again. “How about a private military contractor? Possibly South African but of English heritage. Someone engaged by a wealthy Middle Eastern businessman to protect him during a slightly shady transaction. Could that work?”

The man seemed to consider the idea. “Yes, it could work. I presume that the man whose head was nearly taken off with a pistol round would be the Middle Eastern businessman and the other dead Iranians strewn around the park would be the thugs sent by his business nemesis? But as for you, you’d need a lot of documentation to support your identity.”

Will shook his head. “Not necessarily. My work is sensitive. My paymasters are dangerous people and are not to be crossed. I’d be totally uncooperative with you.”

The man pulled his hands out of his pockets and raised his palms. “Then we’d just torture you to find out what we want.”

Will also raised his palms. “You could. But I’ve got so much nonsense stuffed in my head that you’d come away from the experience more confused than enlightened.” He brushed one of his hands against his clean hair. “In any case, you’re not going to torture me. Somebody here cares too much about my well-being for that to happen.”

“Then it will be a thirty-year prison sentence.”

Will pulled back his arms to stretch his back muscles. The pain was excruciating, but he embraced the sensation. “Wonderful. I’ve often wanted to get away from it all.”

The man smiled and to Will’s surprise slowly seated himself on the floor. The two men were now at eye level at opposite ends of the large room. “Where do you think you are?”

“I have no thoughts on the subject.”

“Well, you must assume that you’re still in New York City.”

“I could just as easily be in Beijing.”

The man sighed. “I know, but you’re not. You’re actually only a few blocks from where you were shot.”

“Prove it.”

The man brought his knees up under his chin and rested his elbows on them. “If I need to, I will.” He frowned and dropped eye contact for a moment. “The doctors took three nine-millimeter bullets out of your stomach.”

“You operated on me here?”

The man shook his head. “No, we took charge of you after you were operated on in a hospital.”

“And it’s amazing that I’m still alive.” Will spoke in a mocking tone.

The man reengaged eye contact. “You have older wounds on your body. From bullets, knives, and shrapnel.”

“I’ve always been a bit clumsy.”

“Or reckless.”

Will nodded slightly. “How about that cup of tea?”

The man exhaled again. He placed his hands on his knees. “The NYPD had to shoot eight Iranians dead before they could get near your body. They took possession of you and brought you to a hospital. But because your actions in Central Park were deemed to be terrorist-related, the incident was given national significance. As a result, I was brought in. I am a senior special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“No you’re not.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “You want me to show you a badge?”

“No thanks.”

The man spoke with what sounded like slow exasperation. “Why am I not an FBI agent?”

Will shrugged and rubbed his chin. “It’s an issue of agenda. You’re not here to solve a crime and close a case.” He shook his head. “No, you view me in a different way.”

“The FBI is not just about law enforcement.”

“I know. But you’re just not that type. I can tell from the way you’re thinking.”

The man chuckled. “You can see what I’m thinking?”

“I can tell that you’re thinking on multiple levels and not just about me.”

“So what would that make me?”

Will brought his hand down to rest on his lap. “Among many things it would make you an overburdened man.” He smiled. “Quite clearly an overburdened intelligence officer.”

“How would you know that type?”

Will shrugged again. “As I say, I’m a private military contractor. A man like me would obviously be living in a murky world. Sometimes getting deniable instructions from intelligence services, sometimes being chased by them.” He produced a pretend frown and looked away. “Maybe not South African, though. Maybe a white expatriate who grew up in Tanzania.” He looked back at the man. “That sounds less of a cliche.”

The man started drumming his fingers again. “So you would say that I’m CIA?”

Will crossed one foot over the other. “I didn’t say that. You could be an Israeli Mossad agent. Or a Russian SVR officer. Or a number of other things. But”-he looked around the bare room before returning his gaze to the man-“based upon the dangerous assumption that you are American, I will allow myself to conclude that you are CIA.”