Matthew Dunn - Sentinel

Breathing fast, Will looked at the target. “You’re coming with me.”

Pulling the struggling driver out of the vehicle by his throat, Will looked around. The place looked chaotic. Civilian cars were immobile and at odd angles on the road behind Roger’s vehicle. The men and women inside them were watching all that was happening before them with looks of shock and fear. Some of them had cell phones planted against the sides of their faces. He heard sirens coming from multiple directions and knew that they would belong to law enforcement and maybe even specialist FSB units. Will wasted no time and began to drag his captive backward until he was by Roger. He looked at the CIA officer. “Is your vehicle operable?”

Roger nodded. “Reckon so.”

Roger moved into the driver’s seat of his vehicle and reversed the car, and as he did so Will heard the sound of metal tearing apart. Roger stopped the car, kept the engine running, got out, and opened one of the rear passenger doors. “The vehicle’s okay. But we need to get the hell out of here, right now.”

Will looked at Laith. The American was still pointing his AMR-2 at the head of the prone but conscious guard. Will spoke into his throat mic: “Laith, we’ve got to move.”

The sirens were drawing closer.

Laith smiled at the man close to his feet. In his earpiece, Will heard Laith’s words to the bodyguard. “Sorry about this.”

Laith spun his rifle around and swept it through the air, smacking its butt against the side of the guard’s head. He crouched down, placed his fingers against the man’s throat to check his pulse, muttered “You’ll live,” and jogged over to Roger’s car.

Seconds later they were all in the vehicle and Roger was driving the car at high speed along the road. Laith and Will were in the backseat; their captive was lying on the floor with their boots holding him firmly in place.

As they moved steadily along the route that took them west, away from the city, Will looked down and smiled, wondering what Alistair would think if he could see him now.

With a boot on the MI6 Head of Moscow Station.

It was either this place or a local school.” Roger rubbed his fatigued face.

Will looked around. They were in a small Russian Orthodox church, near woods and a tiny village that was fifty miles west of the outskirts of Moscow. Roger had chosen the venue because, like schools, most churches were empty at night, were easy to break into, and usually did not contain valuables deemed worthy of protection by alarm systems. The church had wooden pews to the left and right of the center aisle Will was standing in. The place was in total darkness, save for the light emitted by the flashlights that Will, Roger, and Laith carried. Their beams produced snapshot images of religious icons, prayer books, free-standing lamps, chandeliers, unlit candles, three-barred metal crosses, alcoves, wall-mounted paintings of various apostles and Jesus Christ, and an altar table that had marble pillars on either side of it. In front of the altar was a large chair. Seated within it was their prisoner. His arms and legs had been expertly tied to the chair with rope by Laith, who was standing close to the man.

Will glanced at Roger and quietly asked, “Are you sure we weren’t followed here?”

Roger shrugged. “There were only a few cars on the road leading to this place. They all looked normal.”

Will smiled, although his mood was cold. “Good.” He swung his flashlight back toward the prisoner. The man’s head was slumped down, though he was awake and unharmed. “Let’s begin.”

Will walked to the front of the pews and sat down on them so that he was directly opposite the prisoner, fifteen feet distant. He positioned his flashlight on the pew so that it shone directly into the man’s face, stretched out his legs, and leaned back to rest his head in his interlocked hands. Laith sat down on the far right-hand side of the front pew; Roger perched on the far left-hand side of the front pew. Both men pointed their lights at the prisoner. Everything in the church was now in total darkness, save the altar and the trussed man before it.

When Will spoke, his voice was calm, of medium volume, and very controlled. “Lift up your head, please.”

The prisoner did not move.

“Lift up your head.”

The man remained motionless.

Will let out a long sigh. “Would you like me to lift up your head for you? I could do so in a way that would make you never want to lower your head again.”

Nothing happened at first. Then the prisoner gradually lifted his head, squinting as the flashlights’ beams struck his face. The man was clean-shaven, had hair that was now ruffled but would normally have been carefully held in place by creams, was wearing an expensive suit, shirt, and tie and had a slender build. He was fifty-one years old.

Will nodded, even though he knew that the prisoner could not see him and his men. “That’s better.” He placed one foot over the other. “We need to make our introductions. Your name is Guy Louis Harcourt-DeVerre. You are a British national, come from a family of nobility, and hold the aristocratic title of baron. But, more important than that, you are the MI6 Head of Moscow Station.”

The prisoner’s eyes seemed to adjust to the light. His eyes widened; his expression was one of anger. “A full introduction requires me to know your names.” Guy’s accent was polished, very well spoken.

Will glanced in the direction of Roger and Laith before returning his attention to the MI6 officer. “We’re very dangerous men. That’s all you need to know.”

Guy smiled, but the anger was still evident. “Judging by the accents I heard in the car coming here, you are clearly very dangerous English and American men.”

“Maybe. Or perhaps we’re SVR or FSB officers posing as Westerners.”

Guy slowly looked around, then back at Will’s flashlight. “Is this an inquisition or an execution?”

“That depends on how you answer my next question.”

Guy kept staring at the light; he showed no signs of fear. Will had expected as much from a senior MI6 officer of Guy’s stature.

Will unclasped his hands and adjusted his position so that he was leaning forward. “Where is Taras Khmelnytsky, the man who has the MI6 code name Razin?”

Guy chuckled. “I’ve never heard of him.”

Will kept his voice calm and neutral. “Yes, you have. You know about Razin because you work for him.”

Guy smiled. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Will stared at the officer for a moment before saying, “Your response does not help your situation.”

This time Guy laughed loudly, his voice echoing around the empty church. “My situation?” His laugh suddenly stopped. “My situation will in all probability lead to my death. You’ll do what you want to me. But whatever you do, I can’t give you an answer that I don’t have.”

Will leaned farther forward. “Listen to me very carefully. I’ve sat where you are now sitting a hundred times. I know all about the games that can be deployed to resist interrogation. I know what is going through your brain right now. Your primary objective will be to draw out our discussion for as long as possible, with the hope that you’ll be rescued by British or Russian forces. At the same time, you will be making rapid and evolving assessments of your captors: trying to ascertain what our objectives are, what kind of men we are, and how far we are willing to go to get what we need. When you realize that we are men who will stop at nothing, you will start feeding us half-truths and lies to keep our attention and to make you appear cooperative. Then, when that doesn’t work, you’ll feign shock, fear, and maybe illness to try to bring the interrogation to a temporary halt. And ultimately, when that tactic fails, you will ask us for things: water, food, for your ropes to be loosened, anything to make us think you’ve moved to a new level of resignation to your plight and are about to give us what we want. Time is the only weapon you have, and I concede it’s a powerful weapon. But I regret to say that time is my enemy and you’ll have no chance to play out your games.”