Matthew Dunn - Spycatcher

Alistair paused before speaking again. “It is vital that we identify and recruit this high-ranking Qods Force man, and I need you to be fully fit for the task.” He checked his watch. “Patrick’s men did their very best for you, but under normal circumstances you should still be in hospital. Goodness knows how you’re still conscious. After we’ve finished here, you are being taken to see the best London doctor I could find who specializes in gunshot wounds and resultant trauma. I’ve told her to finish your treatment. And I’ve told her that she has her work cut out for her, as I need you on an airplane to Sarajevo tomorrow afternoon.”

Will frowned. “Patrick’s message. Is it in any way connected to your requirement to capture the Qods Force commander?”

“Yes, it most certainly is related, William.” He pointed at Will. “I need you to identify and hunt down this man. I need you to interrogate him and find out what he plans to do to us. I need you to do what you do best and what no one else is capable of.” Alistair’s face looked somber. “This will be your toughest and most critical mission. You must succeed despite the odds against your doing so.” Alistair nodded once. “Do whatever you have to do. But you must succeed. You must stop him.”

“Stop him from doing what?”

Alistair nodded slowly. “The Qods Force Head of Western Directorate has planned to inflict upon us a huge massacre the likes of which the world has never seen before. You must stop him from committing genocide.”

Will opened the door, returned the keys to his pocket, and looked down at the pile of letters on the floor by his feet. He stepped over them and allowed the door to slam shut behind him.

He had not been to his apartment for more than two years, and despite its being clean and tidy, a musty odor hung heavy in the air. He walked along the corridor and entered the minimalist open-plan dining, lounge, and kitchen area. Light from the Thames-facing windows illuminated floating dust, and Will opened one of them to allow a fresh breeze to course through. He looked out at London. From his position on the building’s top floor, he could see much of the great city and be reminded of all the memories it held for him. He turned, walked to his kitchen, and placed a grocery bag on one of the counters.

Will breathed deeply for a while and wondered why he had come here. He wondered why he so rarely used the place. He wondered why it had never really felt like a true home for him. He shook his head, frowned, looked around the kitchen for a moment before opening a cupboard. He withdrew a small saucepan and a china teapot, rinsed both in the sink, and placed the pan on a burner. From within the grocery bag, he pulled out a bottle of Gleneagles Natural Spring Water, unscrewed the cap, and poured half its contents into the pan. Then he turned on the burner, walked to his bathroom, and stripped off his clothes. The mirror before him showed his muscular but battered physique and the thick bandages that had been expertly applied over his most recent wounds by the London doctor. He stood for a while and wondered how much more abuse his body could take after the years of violence inflicted on it. Considerably more, he decided, and dressed as he heard the water reach the boiling point.

He reentered the kitchen, picked up the pan, and poured a little of the water inside and over the teapot. From the grocery bag, he withdrew a packet of loose-leaf Scottish breakfast tea. He gently opened the packet and smiled as he held it to his nose. The smell instantly reminded him of good times, of times before now, of times he often could not remember in detail. He drizzled some of the tea into the pot, shook the pot a little to spread the tea evenly in its base, and poured boiling water over it. From an adjacent drawer, he withdrew a long spoon and a tea cozy. He stirred the tea three times with the spoon and placed the cozy over the pot.

He moved to his Garrard 501 turntable and crouched beside it to look at his record collection. He knew what he wanted to listen to, and when he found the record, he carefully extracted it from its jacket and set it on the turntable. He switched on the machine and watched its stylus move over the vinyl before setting itself down to play. Speakers beside the Garrard hissed and crackled before emitting the sounds of the Spanish classical guitarist Andres Segovia playing Isaac Albeniz’s “Sevilla.” Will closed his eyes for a moment and recalled the time he had traveled from America to London as a teenager and attended what was to be the old maestro’s last British concert. He remembered Segovia’s final words as Will and others in the audience repeatedly called for more encores.

The old man is tired now and must go.

He remembered hearing shortly afterward that the old man had passed away.

Will opened his eyes and walked back into the kitchen. He searched through cupboards before finding a china cup and saucer, examining both to ensure that they were clean. He carefully poured tea into the cup, walked back into the lounge area, sat at his bare dining table, and looked around. On one wall he saw a framed photograph of a younger Will and three other men standing on a mountain runway wearing high-altitude Foreign Legion parachute equipment and carrying assault rifles. Inscribed at the bottom of the photograph were the words “We gave them hell.” He smiled at the machismo of the sentiment, and his smile faded as he recalled the deaths of two of the men in the picture. Next to the photograph was a family portrait showing a very much younger Will, his sister, and their mother and father. He knew that he could have been only four or five years old when the painting was made. He knew that his father had been taken from him soon afterward.

Will cursed his memories of death and loss and drank a sip of the breakfast tea. The warmth of the drink and the sounds of Segovia calmed him and briefly took his mind to a place of tranquillity. He let himself enjoy the moment before reality intruded as a twinge of pain from one of the bullet holes in his stomach.

He stood and walked into the apartment’s master bedroom. The bed that was usually dressed in crisp, white, fragrant linen was now bare. He vaguely remembered the many women who’d been to this room. They seemed anonymous now. Or maybe it was he who seemed anonymous, not they. He walked out of the bedroom and looked around the apartment one more time. He knew now that he hated the place. It was too cold and bare. He knew that it could have been something very different had there been a lover in his life to share it with him.

Pulling out his phone, he called his bank. He gave instructions to the man at the other end of the line, listened to the banker argue with him and tell Will that he would be mad to do as he was suggesting. Will told the man to shut up and just do what he was told. He checked his watch. Seven hours before he was due to board a plane to Bosnia. Rain was now falling heavily over the city. He decided that he had just enough time to visit two other places in London. Being in the rain was preferable to being here.

Will walked quickly at first, the collar of his overcoat turned up, his head low to shield himself from the weather. When he was satisfied that there were no other people nearby, he slowed and looked around. He was in Highgate Cemetery, North London’s prestigious and eerie old place for the dead, and at first he was unsure where to go. He looked at gravestones, at statues of angels, at Gothic architecture covered with vines and moss, at dark and tangled trees and the narrow twisting footpaths. Everywhere around him seemed designed by nature and the place’s sleeping occupants to keep the grounds secret from outsiders. He rubbed his hands and walked some more until he found a pathway that felt familiar. Rain lashed harder against his face, and he increased his pace, dodging sporadic stones and exposed roots and darting through side alleys, short tunnels, and occasional open ground. He passed tombs and soon knew that he was heading in the right direction. He checked the bunch of flowers in his hand, and even though their paper wrapping was now sodden and falling apart, the blend of golden chrysanthemums and ivory poppies still looked fresh and pretty. He moved around two bends on his trail.