Matthew Dunn - Sentinel

“But he’s acquainted with someone who does work with Schiller?”

“Correct.”

“Name?”

“A Frenchman named Philippe Delage. He lives in Paris but spends a lot of time in Berlin, because that’s where Schiller’s based.”

They were silent as a waiter brought a jug of coffee to the table and poured their drinks. After he left, Will said, “The Cayman Islands are a bit out of my way right now.”

Krystof lifted his cup and saucer; his hand shook as he did so. “You don’t need to go there. Baines is meeting Delage in Munich tomorrow. He’s flying into Germany today and is staying at the Mandarin Oriental.”

“Today?”

Krystof took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve already checked for you. There are spaces available on the 12:40 P.M. Adria flight. It’s direct, and you can be in Munich around the same time he arrives.”

Will laughed quietly. “You’ve thought of everything.” He withdrew an envelope containing the remaining?5,000 owed to the Czech. “Very good work.”

Krystof secreted the cash. “Anything else you need me to do?”

“No, that’s all.”

Krystof inhaled deeply on his cigarette and again looked out of the window. “I thought you’d say that.”

Will snapped out of being David. Something was wrong. “What are you going to do now?”

In a near whisper, Krystof replied, “Something I’ve been planning to do since… since she’s been gone.”

Will reached across the table and grabbed Krystof’s forearm. “No. You have a future. You’re still useful to people like me. I’ll get you more work-anything to keep your mind occupied.”

Krystof smiled with a look of sad resignation. “You won’t be able to do that for long. Your star’s long since waned in the service. I’m surprised they even asked you to do this job.” He broke free from Will’s grip and looked at him. “You’ve always been very kind to me. But you need to understand that my mind’s made up. It’s what I want.”

Will was lost for words.

Krystof’s smile faded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, and given what I’ve just told you, perhaps you might agree to answer it.”

Will waited.

“Is David Becket your real name?”

Oh, dear God. Will’s stomach churned. He was facing a man who had known Becket for years, who liked the MI6 officer, and who wanted to know the truth before he killed himself due to the grief he felt about his daughter’s tragic death. Every ounce of humanity within him screamed out that Krystof had to know the truth.

Will stood; Krystof followed suit.

Will moved to him, hugged him, said, “Be at peace, my dear friend.” Then he stepped back and nodded. “You’ve always deserved to know the truth. David Becket’s my real name.”

The taxi took Will away from Munich International Airport and toward the city. Snow carpeted the roads and surrounding countryside, though for now no more was falling.

Will was on his cell phone, talking to Alistair. “Only three?”

“That’s all I could get for you at this short notice. They’re due to arrive in Russia in three days’ time and will wait for you there.”

“Equipment?”

“I’ve told them that handguns won’t be enough. Everything’s going through in diplomatic bags. The team leader has your John Lawrence number and will make contact when he’s in situ.”

“Do I know him?”

“I believe you had a drink with him in Washington before leaving.”

Roger Koenig.

“Excellent. And what have you got on my man?”

Will listened for ten minutes as Alistair briefed him on everything MI6 knew about Richard Baines. It wasn’t a lot, but there was enough on the British arms dealer to give Will the leverage he needed.

“Room number?”

“Cheltenham’s tracked his credit card number, and it doesn’t show which room he’s in.”

Cheltenham-GCHQ.

“But I’ve managed to speak to a contact at BfV.”

The German Security Service.

“No mention made of you. They checked with the hotel and got the room. He’s in the Mandarin suite.”

“All right, but you should have spoken to me first before alerting the locals.”

“I’m so sorry. Sometimes I forget that I’m only your boss.”

The sarcastic comment made Will smile.

“How’s your associate holding up?”

Will thought about Sentinel. “Events are taking their toll on him. But he’s a tough bastard.”

“Is his judgment sound?”

Will responded, “Even though I disagree with what he wants to do, I can’t fault the logic of his plan.”

“You have the authority to overrule him.”

“I know, but this is happening to his people. If I were in his position, I’d probably do the same thing he’s doing.”

W ill stood outside the Mandarin suite, straightened his tie, pressed the hotel room’s buzzer, and said in a loud German-accented voice, “Hotel Management.”

He heard a man call out something. He waited patiently.

Thirty seconds later, a man opened the door. He was dressed in a bathrobe, had wet hair, and smelled of soap.

“Mr. Baines?”

The man replied in a south London accent. “Of course.”

Will stepped forward, punched his hand under Baines’s jaw, lifted him off the ground, carried him back into the room, and threw him onto the floor.

“What the fuck-?”

Will stamped a foot on Baines’s flabby belly, causing the arms dealer to retch. He knelt down beside his writhing body and grabbed his jaw again, holding it firm so that they were looking directly at each other.

“Listen very carefully to me.” Will leaned closer. “I work for British Intelligence. We know about your deals in Africa, your shipment that’s sailing through the Persian Gulf, and the missiles you’re about to purchase from the Chinese. You’ve got a lot of blood on your hands, and we’ve got enough evidence to put you in prison for the rest of your life. But I’m not here for that. Tomorrow you’re meeting Philippe Delage. I’m going to be at that meeting with you, and you’re going to say that I’m someone you trust and have done business with for years.”

Baines tried to break free from Will’s grip. “You’ve got to be crazy.”

Will held him firm. “You are going to do this for me. And afterward, you’re never going to mention this little chat. Fail at either, and I promise that I’ll come back for you.”

T he three men were sitting around a large oak table in the Mandarin Oriental’s business-suite boardroom. Dressed in a Camps de Luca suit, a silk shirt, and a tie that he’d bound into a schoolboy knot, Philippe Delage looked at home in the five-star surroundings. He was probably around fifty years old, but wealth, a charmed life, an attractive wife half his age, a personal trainer, or all of those things had made him look ten years younger. By contrast, Richard Baines looked like a 1980s barrow boy banker-pin-striped suit, suspenders over a striped shirt, slicked-back hair, and overapplied eau de cologne. The third man, Will Cochrane posing as Thomas Eden, was dressed as if he were about to have a glass of port in the Household Cavalry’s officers’ mess-dark Huntsman bespoke Savile Row sports jacket, pink shirt with cutaway collar, regimental tie, cords, and brogues.

Delage studied Eden’s business card and said in a barely accented voice, “I’ve never heard of Thomas Eden before.” He looked at Baines. “Why is that?”

Baines shrugged. “Fucked if I know, pal.”

Delage shook his head. “You say you’ve done business together for years. Strange, given that you and I have known each other for the same length of time and you’ve never mentioned him before.”