Matthew Dunn - Sentinel

Sentinel.

He came to within ten feet, stopped, and barked in a well-spoken English accent, “The service had better have a damn good reason for calling this meeting.” He kept his gun pointed at Will’s head. “You’ve got ten seconds to persuade me not to pull the trigger.”

The first minutes of daylight showed woodland dotted with red berries, snow-covered ground, and snowflakes falling serenely from the sky. Traces of the fog were still there and gave the place an eerie presence. Turning from the view, Will glanced around the large room. Six large windows surrounded what looked like a well-used spacious family kitchen. That was as it should be, for Sentinel’s safe houses would all have been outfitted to look like genuine homes.

Sentinel was standing in the center of the room speaking rapid Slovene into his cell phone. He finished the call, poured black coffee into a mug, and sat down at the kitchen table.

Will joined him.

Sentinel withdrew three handgun magazines from his trouser pocket and carefully removed the bullets, resting each on its percussion cap on the table, until ten of them were lined up vertically. He took out another magazine, reached behind his back, withdrew a Sig Sauer P229 handgun, and slammed the fresh magazine into the weapon. Placing the muzzle of the gun against one of the bullets, he tapped the projectile over, then did the same with three more. He looked at Will with icy blue eyes. “I’ve now got two hundred and seventy-six assets. One hundred and eighty of them are Russians who operate inside their country, seventy are Ukrainian, Belarusian, Latvian, Estonian, and Finnish men, like those who grabbed you from the base of the Potemkin Stairs, and twenty of them are Western European support agents-mostly wealthy individuals, arms dealers, and forgers-who I use to finance and supply my operations when MI6 is unable to help me. But at the forefront of them all”-he looked back at the bullets-“are my Russian agents, my tier-one intelligence producers. There were ten of them, and now I have six. They all risk their lives for me so that the West can benefit from their intelligence about Russia. Do you know why they do that?”

Will said nothing.

Sentinel smoothed his fingers over the four prone cartridges and closed his eyes before opening them again. For the briefest moment his face was filled with sadness. His expression became cold. “They do it because they love Russia and hate the people that run it.”

Will nodded.

Sentinel looked at the bullets. He pulled back the workings of the Sig Sauer, chambered a round, put the gun onto the table, and muttered to himself, “Bastard.”

“You didn’t suspect him?”

“I had no reason to. I’ve been investigating the deaths, but so far found nothing. I’d concluded the killers were SVR or FSB.”

“How does Khmelnytsky know the identity of your agents?”

Sentinel stared at him.

“Did you make tradecraft mistakes? Perhaps you were followed by Razin to your agent meetings.”

Sentinel remained motionless.

“You can trust me.”

“Trust?” The room reverberated with the volume of Sentinel’s voice. “I don’t trust anyone, and I’m not about to start doing so with someone I’ve only known for a few hours.” He spun the gun so that its nozzle was facing Will. “Do you work in the service’s Russia team?”

“No.”

“Security Department?”

“No.”

“Then what’s your fucking interest in my business?”

Will ignored the question. “You need to set up a meeting with Razin so that I can kill him.”

Sentinel laughed. “Have you read his file?”

“Of course.”

Sentinel’s expression changed. “Then you’ll know that it’s more likely he’ll kill us.”

“I’m prepared to take that risk. Are you?”

Sentinel placed a hand over the gun. “How long have you been in the service?”

“Long enough not to have to prove my worth by answering questions like that.”

“We’ll see.” Sentinel spoke fast. “I’ve no idea how Razin knows the identity of my other agents, nor do I know how Svelte found out he was a traitor.” He raised his voice. “I made no tradecraft mistakes.”

Will held his gaze. “Razin’s command of Alpha gives him a very powerful weapon, but he’s going to need more than that to try to spark a war. Any ideas what he might do?”

“Yes.”

“I’m listening.”

Silence.

Will put a finger against the tip of Sentinel’s gun and yanked it sideways so that the gun was pointing away from him.

But Sentinel’s hand remained over the weapon. “You shouldn’t have come here. And you need to leave right now because there’s nothing more I’m going to say to you.”

Will pulled out his cell phone. “We thought you might say that.” He punched some buttons, pressed SPEAKERPHONE, and placed the phone on the table between them.

A man answered. “Hold while we route the call.”

Thirty seconds later, the same man said, “Okay, you’re through to the chief.”

The chief of MI6.

Sentinel’s expression remained hostile as he glanced at Will, then the cell. “Your messenger boy’s asking too many questions. I’ve ordered him to leave.”

The chief answered, his voice measured and deep. “He has my authority to stay.”

Sentinel shook his head. “You have no authority over me.”

“You can’t speak to me like that.”

“I can. Since I’ve been in the field, I’ve worked with six chiefs. They all come and go. But I’ve stayed.”

“You’ll do what you’re told!”

Sentinel leaned closer to the phone. “I’ll do what I damn well like. And if I like, I’ll go above your head and speak directly to the prime minister. I’ll tell him that you’re interfering in my business and I don’t like it. Our premiers have always done what I’ve told them to do.” He leaned back. “You know that I have that power. Tell your messenger boy to leave, or things will get unpleasant for you.”

The chief was silent for five seconds before saying, “I’m not interfering. I’m giving you help.”

“Help that I didn’t request. You don’t make decisions like that without consulting with me first.”

More silence. Then, “The man I sent is run by a controller who was on your intake when you joined MI6.”

Sentinel’s eyes narrowed. “Name?”

“Alistair McCulloch.”

A thin smile emerged on Sentinel’s face. “I’d heard he got promoted. I’d also heard that he’d been put in charge of a trivial administrative department.”

“That’s what you and everyone else were supposed to have heard.”

The smile vanished. “The service doesn’t withhold information from people like me.”

“When did you last see Alistair?”

Sentinel answered through gritted teeth, “Nine years ago.”

“It must have been an awkward meeting. After all, that’s when you were stripped of your Spartan code name.”

The mention of the code name clearly surprised Sentinel. “They were closing down the Spartan Section.”

“Why?”

“Read the files.”

“I wonder why my predecessor sent Alistair to break the news to you.”

“Probably because the former chief was too scared to do it in person.”

“I’ve read the files. You were stripped of your title because events had moved on since your imprisonment. Russia was no longer the only major threat. For the Spartan Section to have any relevance, its officer had to be globally deployable. They couldn’t do that with you because you were too vital to the Russian operations.”

Sentinel slid the gun close to his body, away from Will’s reach.

“You’d become too… specialized.”