Matthew Dunn - Sentinel

“And you think I will?”

“I think you’d like to.”

The tram stopped at Sirkeci station, alongside the Marmara Sea. Both men were silent as people got onto and off the carriage. Two elderly ladies sat in the seats in front of them.

Luka stared at them before muttering, “Tomorrow morning the U.S. ambassador to Moscow will be summoned to the Kremlin to explain why the United States has pulled out of the economic talks with Russia. No doubt the ambassador will counter that Russia is taking a provocative stance by attempting to aggressively position its oil pricing while at the same trying to obtain a lead role in the WTO.” As the tram pulled away, the noise within the carriage increased, but he kept his voice quiet. “The summons will have achieved nothing other than creating more paranoia, more anger, more distrust, more… shit.”

Will chose his next words carefully, constantly aware that he had to be very careful with Luka. The slightest wrong word would be fed back to the SVR and could cause untold damage. “What would happen if there was an incident in Russia-an act of violence, maybe a bomb or several bombs detonating?”

Luka was silent for ten seconds before asking, “Is that going to happen?”

Will shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. But America’s petrified that a terrorist act could prompt Russia to jump to the wrong conclusions-maybe think it was a U.S. strike.”

“America should be scared of that possibility. Russia’s the twitchiest it’s been in living memory.”

The tram pulled into Cankurtaran. More people got off than on, leaving the carriage a third full. Will desperately wanted to look over his shoulder to see who was behind him. Time was running out; he had to get off at the next stop. “I have a favor to ask.”

Luka laughed quietly. “Today’s agenda seems a little one-sided.”

Will ignored the comment. “I need a name-an arms dealer, preferably someone who specializes in military blueprints. Must be an SVR or FSB asset and currently active.” He added, “Can you do a bit of digging to see if someone pops up with that profile?”

“I don’t need to. I already have a name.”

Will waited.

But Luka said, “Why should I give you that information? You’ve given me nothing today.”

“What do you want?”

Luka placed a hand on Will’s forearm. When he spoke, it was as if he was thinking aloud. “It would be interesting to know the French government’s stance if tensions between my country and America were to increase.”

Will’s mind raced. He had absolutely no idea what the answer was. But Luka would expect Emile Villon of the DGSE to know. “You need this answer by-?”

“The same time you need the identity of the SVR asset.”

Shit.

The tram was slowing. Yenikap? station was in view.

If Will gave him an answer, his information would almost certainly influence Russia’s view of France. But he had to say something. “France is openly a staunch ally of America, though privately it’s neutral.”

“If a situation arose, France wouldn’t stand in our way?”

Will hesitated. “No.”

Luka nodded slowly. “And the rest of Europe?”

“That information’s above my pay grade.”

“I doubt that.” Luka removed his hand.

The tram stopped.

People started to get off.

Will remained motionless. His heart raced. “Please. It’s all I can give you.”

Luka sighed. “Otto von Schiller. German. Lives in Berlin.”

“How can I get to him?”

“That’s all I can give you.”

Will stood to leave but stopped as Luka raised a finger.

“Some of our generals would love those bombs to go off. It would give them the opportunity they’ve been waiting for.”

The following afternoon, Will was in an executive suite within Prague’s Kempinski Hotel Hybernska, having arrived in the Czech Republic three hours before. Outside, snow was falling fast over heavy traffic and throngs of pedestrian shoppers, but inside the luxurious room it was warm and silent. Sitting at an ornate desk, he arranged some pens and papers before him and logged on to the room’s computer. He felt exhausted, but his mind was completely alert and he smiled as he thought through every move of the chess game that he was about to commence.

After thirty minutes of browsing company websites, he found one that suited his purpose-a large, well-known, London-based accounting firm. Looking at the profiles of the firm’s partners, he decided on one of them, noted the man’s contact details, and called him. Introducing himself as Thomas Eden, Will explained that he needed the firm to act on his behalf to secure an off-the-shelf limited company from Companies House, preferably one that had at least ten years of audited accounts and a background in consultancy. That, he was advised, could be obtained in under four hours. He told the partner that he was to be listed as the sole director of the company, that it needed to be renamed Thomas Eden Limited, and that the company’s function would be producing military research and analysis to defense contractors and specialist military journals. The partner asked some questions.

Company bank account?

Already set up in London with HSBC in the name of Thomas Eden, with a current balance of approximately?90,000.

Address?

He gave him details of a private residence in Barnes, London, omitting that it was an operational cover premise and run by a young woman who would collect his mail and forward it on to a post office box run by MI6.

Contact details?

A BlackBerry cell number and e-mail address were supplied. He added that he was traveling on business at present in Europe and would not be back in London for several weeks. Could all documentation requiring signatures be couriered to the Hotel Otrada in Ukraine?

Of course. They can be there tomorrow, and subject to our receiving them a day later, the company’s memorandum and articles of association and certificate of incorporation can be drawn up the same day.

The partner explained that he’d need a?1,000 down payment to be formally engaged and gave Will the firm’s bank details. The man sounded delighted that he’d secured a new client and concluded that he was sure this was the start of a long business relationship.

Will ended the call and got back onto the Net to find another website. Thirty minutes later, he’d spoken to a manager at Servcorp, a company specializing in providing office space and other facilities, including telephone receptionists and individual phone lines with divert-to-cell capabilities. After agreeing on a monthly price for the deal and promising to send copies of the company documentation once it came through in the next few days, Will gave the woman his bank details. Thomas Eden Limited now had an address in Canary Wharf, London, and would seem legitimate to anyone who checked up on the company.

He made a final call to the Hotel Otrada, advised the receptionist that he’d be back at the hotel the next evening, and asked if there was anyone he could speak to about getting some business cards made. After being transferred to the concierge, he was told that it would come with a charge but was no problem. Will gave the man the company name, the Canary Wharf address, and all the contact details. Design? Will didn’t care. Maybe plain white card with blue lettering and numbers.

Pouring himself a mug of black coffee, he turned off the computer and stretched his aching back muscles. He swiveled his chair to face the sumptuous bedroom. Five-star hotel rooms. He’d stayed in thousands of them but hated them all because they reminded him of his transitory existence and dislocation from a normal life.

He lay down on the double bed. In two hours, he needed to leave. Maybe that would give him enough time to get the rest he needed, though he didn’t know if he could sleep. He moved his arm to the empty side of the bed, smoothed his hand over the quilt, and let it rest there.