Matthew Dunn - Sentinel

Be gregarious, affable, money-driven, and occasionally crude, have an eye for anything in a skirt and no allegiances, and hate lawmakers. Be nothing like Will Cochrane.

The elevator doors opened; he walked into the restaurant. The 155-seat venue was three-quarters full. After giving his name to a waiter, he was shown to his table. The stocky, middle-aged Iranian DA was already there, dressed in a suit and sporting a mustache and lacquered black hair. He rose to shake Thomas Eden’s hand.

Will grinned and said in a loud voice, “Mr. Mousavi, good to meet you.”

The DA did not smile; instead, he looked cautious. “We could have met at the embassy.”

Will smiled wider as he sat down at the table. “Embassies are terribly dull places”-he grabbed a wine menu-“and they don’t normally have a good wine cellar.”

“Maybe I don’t drink.”

“If that’s the case, maybe you’re in the wrong job.”

Mousavi’s expression softened, though he still did not smile. Sitting down, he opened his white cloth napkin and placed it carefully over his lap. “Officially, I’m not supposed to meet strangers outside of the embassy.”

Will leaned forward, a twinkle in his eye. “But unofficially”-he glanced around before looking back at the DA-“these types of places are where the real work is done.” He whipped open his napkin and positioned it. “I’m so sorry, you need a business card.”

He gave him one, certain that the two couples at the table next to him were the SBU surveillance team and could easily overhear his conversation.

Mousavi looked at the card for a while before stating, “Canary Wharf is a prestigious address.”

Will shrugged. “I chose it because it gives me a good view of female bankers strutting to work in their tight office skirts.”

Mousavi smiled. “Business must be good.”

“Damn good.” Will beckoned a waitress. “So good that demand is outweighing supply.”

The waitress came over.

Will beamed at her. She was in her midtwenties and had short blond hair and no rings on her fingers.

In Russian, he asked, “What do you recommend to eat?”

She smiled, looked a little coy. “I’ve only just started working here and don’t really know the menu. Let me get someone else to serve you.”

Will wagged a finger. “That would ruin our evening. You’re the prettiest woman in here.”

She giggled. “Well, I’ve heard the steaks are good.”

Will glanced at Mousavi, who nodded and said, “Make mine well done.”

“And mine rare.” Will hated rare steaks but thought that’s how Thomas would like them. He opened the wine list, winked at the DA, and said while pointing at the list, “We’ll have this bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.”

When the waitress left, Mousavi asked in English, “Where did you learn Russian?”

“Household Cavalry. They put me on a year’s language course.” He grinned. “One year of sitting opposite a Russian stunner. She taught me a lot of stuff. More than she was supposed to…”

“My Russian teacher was nothing like that-nothing like that at all.” The DA looked serious. “Mr. Eden, your letter of introduction to me stated that you had an interesting business proposition to discuss.”

Will pointed at the DA. “ Confidentially discuss.”

Mousavi seemed affronted. “I’m here in an official capacity.”

“I know.” Will leaned forward and lowered his voice a little. “But a man in my position has to be careful talking to someone from your country.”

“And what is your… position?”

Will leaned back and rubbed his hands together. “I do a lot of the normal stuff-procurement and sales to clients all over the world. It pays the bills.” He lost his smile. “But what I’m really good at, what I’m known for, is the classy high-end stuff.”

The waitress brought their bottle to the table and poured two glasses of wine. Will looked at her, his smile back on. “Chanel No. 19

…” He shook his head. “No. Chanel No. 19 Poudre. Am I right?”

The waitress nodded. “My boyfriend bought it for me. I couldn’t afford it on my salary.”

Will laughed. “Boyfriend? Too bad-for me.”

She smiled. “Not your lucky night.”

As she left, Will stared at her bottom, sighed, then looked sharply at Mousavi. “Blueprints of prototypes. The classy stuff. That’s what I deliver to discerning clients.”

“And you think the Iranian government might be interested in what you have to offer?”

Will shrugged. “I’m here to find out.” He lifted his glass and held it in midair over the table.

Mousavi stared at his own glass, then picked it up and chinked it against Will’s. “And I’m listening.”

Will took a sip of his wine and nodded approvingly. “This is a good drop.”

The DA drank. “I agree, though it’s a shame the restaurant doesn’t stock any ninety-eight.”

Will smiled. “I knew you’d know your wines.”

Mousavi placed his glass down. “What do you have?”

Will hesitated. “A new weapons system is being tested. It can easily be carried by one man and has a devastating effect.” He lowered his voice. “An ideal weapon for Iranian special forces.”

Mousavi seemed deep in thought. “Bombs?”

“Yes, but I can’t go into detail yet until I know where this conversation’s going.”

The DA frowned. “You have a legitimate supplier of the blueprints for these weapons?”

This was the moment Will had been leading up to.

“Legitimate suppliers are rarely of use to me. I’ve got a contact in the Russian army, a colonel. He’s involved with these weapons and has access to the blueprints. I’ve paid him a lot of money to copy the documents so that I can put them on the market. I’m giving you first refusal.”

Mousavi stood quickly, anger on his face. “You have been deeply mistaken, Mr. Eden. I will have no involvement in illegal procurement.”

“Mr. Mousavi-”

“No. This meeting is over!”

Mousavi stormed out of the restaurant just as the pretty waitress brought their steaks to the table. She looked concerned. “Is everything all right?”

Will tried to look disappointed, even though Mousavi had just said and done exactly what he’d hoped. “Tonight clearly is not my night.”

She placed the plates down, glanced quickly around, and whispered, “I finish at eleven.”

Will looked at her and wondered what it would feel like to meet her for a late drink. But he’d have to maintain the arrogant and lecherous personality of Thomas Eden in case the SBU detail was still on him. He couldn’t do that to the woman, nor could he do that to himself. His smile masked an inner sadness. “That would have been lovely, but I’ve got work to do.”

T he following day, Will walked through the arrivals section of Saint Petersburg’s Pulkovo Airport. He’d entered Russia using his multientry passport in the name of John Lawrence. Sentinel had flown into the country earlier that morning, and Will was going to meet him.

He turned on his cell phone. A message bleeped; he recognized the number belonging to one of Patrick’s many cover phones.

They sent it over. No mention of the man or the items.

Will smiled. Langley had received the SBU transcript with no reference to the “colonel” or the bombs. The only reason they would have omitted those details was if they thought they’d gain further favor with the SVR by sending the information to the Russians so that the matter could be investigated by the FSB. His operation had begun. By carefully drip feeding snippets of information to the Russians, his hope was that Taras Khmelnytsky would be discredited and sacked from the military.

As he continued walking toward the exit, his smile faded. Two days ago, Sentinel had deposited his message in the Minsk DLB. Tonight they would be meeting Shashka. And if everything went according to plan, they would also be meeting Razin.