Matthew Dunn - Spycatcher

“It’s fortunate for you that you mentioned Alistair’s name.” Will looked toward the door and lowered his voice. “What will happen now?”

Patrick also looked toward the door. “You’re by no means fit to leave this place, but you can’t stay here any longer. Nor can I offer you any more medical support.” He glanced back at Will and frowned. “I’m sorry that someone of your status had to be brought here. I couldn’t take you to an Agency facility. And the men here were the best I could put together at such short notice. But you have to go now, although I suggest you rest up in a hotel somewhere for another week before attempting the flight back to London. One of my men will get you some clothes and set you up with anything else you need. And I presume you have your passport and credit cards safely hidden somewhere in the city?”

“Yes.”

Patrick placed a hand under Will’s elbow and guided him to the exit. But before he opened the door, he turned to face Will fully. He spoke quietly and rapidly. “Take a message back to Alistair. Only Alistair. Tell him the following.” He nodded once. “The strike against us will be massive, and the great or the little will be the victim.”

Will checked the map on his screen and noted that he was nearly halfway across the Atlantic Ocean. He was on a Heathrow-bound British Airways night flight and had paid for a first-class seat to ensure space and privacy. Save for occasional reading lights, the area around him was dark and most of the other passengers were sleeping.

Will had not heeded Patrick’s advice to recuperate for a few days in New York City and instead had taken the next available flight back to London. He wondered now if he’d been wise to do so. Despite having taken a cocktail of medications before boarding the airplane at JFK, he now felt feverish and in agony. He pulled a thin blanket over his body and tried to sleep again. But the same memory kept coming back.

Soroush, I’m not who you think I am.

I suspected as much.

Good. Then you know who I really work for?

I do.

So you must also know what I’m about to ask from you.

Of course. You wish me to betray my country.

A new sweat broke out under Will’s clothes, and he pulled off the blanket. He opened his eyes, reached for a glass of ice water, and forced half its contents down. His hand shook as he replaced the glass on the table beside him. He now felt very cold again, and he cursed the fever while pulling on the blanket. He looked once more at the electronic map. The plane barely seemed to be moving.

Will shook his head and spoke out loud. “Why the hell did you not get off that bridge when you had the chance, my friend?”

A flight attendant appeared next to him. “Is everything all right?”

He looked up at her. He tried to smile and lied. “Bloody jet lag. I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”

The woman nodded and produced a sympathetic smile. “Let me know if you need anything. You’re nearly home.”

Will closed his eyes again and this time saw Soroush sitting before him. He was eating breakfast on the day of his death. He looked tired. Reflective and sad. He spoke while shaking his head.

How can there be honor in what I do? How can there be any justification for taking others’ secrets? How can I expect to keep doing this without one day being punished? Maybe today is that day. And maybe that is a good thing.

Will saw the six men as soon as he exited Heathrow’s passport control. He knew that under their jackets they would be armed. They looked at him and he looked at them.

One of the men walked up to him. He had the gait and posture of a Special Forces man, and the men behind him looked similar. The man nodded once at Will and said, “We’re hoping to avoid any trouble, sir.”

Will looked around. To the left and right of the Special Forces men were airport police officers. They held Heckler amp; Koch submachine guns and were also eyeing Will. He looked back at the man before him and smiled. “If you try to put me into shackles, there’ll be plenty of trouble.”

The man said nothing, nodded, and gestured toward Will’s arm. Will shook his head slightly, and the man quickly withdrew his hand before pointing in the direction of his men.

Will stood for a moment. Then he stepped forward.

The black car turned into the basement parking garage of the MI6 headquarters in Vauxhall Cross, London. In a moment it was stationary, and four men quickly emerged from the vehicle. One of them looked back into the car and said to Will, “Come on, sir, let’s go.”

Will was led toward an elevator, shielded by the men. One of his chaperones withdrew a crude-looking burlap hood and said, “We’ve been given instructions to hide your face from others in this building.” He handed Will the hood. “Sorry.”

Will exhaled slowly and looked at the men around him. “A hood won’t make any difference to me if you try anything silly.”

“We know.”

Will pulled on the heavy hood and was immediately sightless. He felt the elevator move, then stop and heard doors swishing open. Hands gently gripped his arms, and he allowed them to do so. He was guided forward. All around him was quiet. He knew he was being walked down a special wing of the HQ, a place most intelligence officers were not permitted to enter. They stopped, and Will heard a key being inserted into a lock. He breathed deeply. The walk had been excruciating.

He was moved forward again and then pushed down into a chair. Men spoke, and there was audible movement around him. He heard a door open and shut several times, then silence.

“Take your hood off.” The voice came from directly in front of him.

Will did as he was told. He looked around and saw that he was in a windowless room furnished solely with a conference table and surrounding chairs. There was one man in the room, and he sat at the table, opposite Will. Will knew that the man was fifty-seven years old, but he looked ten years younger. His blond hair was pomaded into place. He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt with French cuffs, and a Royal Navy tie.

The man looked at Will with glistening eyes. “You are an obstinate liability at times.”

Will smiled. “Hello, Alistair.”

Alistair did not smile. Instead Will’s MI6 Controller pointed a finger at him and asked, “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I was coming straight here. It was unnecessary to get me at the airport.”

“Do you realize what you have done?” Alistair repeated.

Will nodded, tenting his fingertips. “Obviously, I have killed a man.”

Alistair frowned, observing him for a moment, then exhaled slowly and shook his head. “You have done much more than that. You killed MI6’s best-placed Iranian agent, a man who took us into the very heart of Tehran’s decision making and intentions toward the West. You of all people”-Alistair raised his voice-“know that Soroush’s intelligence gave us invaluable insight into the Iranian nuclear program, into Iran’s export and support of terrorist activities, into its conventional military strategy in the Middle East, and into the leadership power struggles within its political machine. And you also know that the intelligence you gleaned from your agent has enabled us, on more than one occasion, to take essential, timely, preemptive actions. Actions that have almost certainly stopped Iran from blundering into war with its neighbors.” The man opened his eyes wide. “You did not just kill a man. You killed a major component of our collective defenses against a hostile and unpredictable regime.”