Matthew Reilly - Scarecrow Returns

Now it was Schofield who looked down, but only briefly. “Okay, fine. You first.”

Champion said, “Before I was in the Action Division, I was in the DGSE’s Directorate of Intelligence. I monitored Islamic extremist groups in Algeria, Morocco and Yemen. In particular, their increasing enlistment of women. I befriended a Yemeni mother of five, named Hannah Fatah. She fed me excellent information for three years, information that prevented two attacks on Paris—one on the Eiffel Tower and another at Charles de Gaulle Airport.

“Then one day, Hannah asked to be brought in. She was pregnant again and she feared that her superiors had discovered that she was a leak. I brought her in, took her back to the DGSE field office in Marseilles. When she walked into the debriefing room, with my boss—my husband at the time—and his boss watching through a two-way mirror, she set off a small wad of Semtex that had been surgically implanted into her uterus.

“I never suspected anything—Hannah already had a scar on her stomach from the Cesarean birth of her last child, and the explosive was concealed from our X-ray and cathode-ray scanners by a wrapping material made of human bone, designed to appear as a fetus. She passed through four security scanners before she got into that room and killed two very senior DGSE agents, one of them my husband, and three of my other colleagues. I alone survived. She had waited three years to do it.”

Schofield was silent.

Champion said, “My empathy for Hannah Fatah got my husband killed. My closest colleagues, too. So I decided that I would no longer live with empathy. I became cold. I transferred to Action Division, and made my first kill within a month. I’ve been doing it ever since.”

She paused. “Strange. In my research on you, Scarecrow, I struggled to find a defining reason why you became such an efficient killer of men.”

“Your research on me?”

“When you set out to assassinate someone, it is wise to know as much as you can about them. Pressure points, loved ones, weaknesses that can be exploited.”

“Why don’t you tell me about myself then,” Schofield said. “Let’s see what you know and I’ll tell you how accurate it is.”

“Okay,” Champion began.

AS THEY glided through the network of narrow leads, Champion spoke slowly:

“Shane Michael Schofield is the son of John Schofield, a successful businessman, and the grandson of Michael Schofield, a highly decorated Marine, call sign ‘Mustang.’

“Michael Schofield’s actions during World War II are legendary in the Marine Corps. Indeed, several of them are still classified more than sixty years later, including one fabled mission known only as Black Wolf Hunt. Your grandfather is revered in the Corps, a most admired man. You and he are close, and you dine together at least once a month.”

Schofield nodded. “So far, all correct.”

“But your father—John Schofield—was not a Marine, and you and he were not close, all the way to his death . . .”

Champion surveyed Schofield’s face as she said this. His distant look gave her the answer she was after. It was true.

“Your father was a businessman and a very good one,” she said. “He could never match your grandfather’s military accomplishments so he chose to outdo him in the acquisition of money and he became a very wealthy man.”

Schofield said nothing.

It went further than that.

His father had hated his grandfather, despised him, despised the respect he received everywhere he went. And even though Michael Schofield had never put any pressure on John Schofield to do anything other than what his heart desired, John had been haunted by the long shadow cast by his legendary father. It was, sadly, a torment that found expression in other ways.

Champion said, “Your father regularly beat both you and your mother: I found hospital records from your youth detailing several broken noses and cigarette burns on your forearms.”

Schofield said nothing. It was either the bastard beat his mother or beat him, and that was a no-brainer. His beatings had started at the age of twelve. He still bore small circular scars on his forearms from the cigarette burns.

Champion went on. “So when you turned eighteen, you joined the Marines and there you thrived. You became a pilot in the Air Wing, where you served with distinction until you were shot down over Bosnia, where a local warlord mutilated your eyes, leaving the distinctive scars that are the origin of your call sign.

“After your rescue, you became a regular Marine rifleman, rising quickly to Force Recon level. You commanded Force Reconnaissance Unit 16 on that mission to Antarctica which brought you into contact with my cousin. You survived that—a delicate affair involving allies at war and even American forces fighting American forces—but it displeased some in high places and you were subsequently assigned to the President’s helicopter, Marine One. It was an ornamental position and thus an insult for one so skilled and experienced, but you did it anyway.

“That assignment brought you into another incident that the U.S. has successfully hidden from the world: Colonel Caesar Russell’s coup attempt. The hunting of a President within the confines of his most secret base. Your acts there won you a classified Medal of Honor.”

Champion paused.

“Shortly after that, your father died, by his own hand.”

Schofield nodded silently. The bastard had got the death he’d deserved: bitter and alone, sitting in his wood-paneled office, he’d shot himself through the mouth.

Champion said, “Your mother had already passed away several years earlier. Yet, despite your father’s awful treatment of you as a child, he left you everything in his will. Twelve million dollars. Making you, a humble United States Marine, a very rich young man .”

Schofield said nothing.

This was all true, but few knew it. Champion’s sources were excellent. Mother knew about the money and Gant had known, too. And they had both approved of what he had done next.

Champion said, “You donated it all to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. Every penny. An act of principle?”

“You could call it that.” Schofield shrugged.

“It was twelve million dollars. You wouldn’t have had to work again. Do you ever regret it?”

“Not for a second. It was a cruel man’s money and I didn’t want it. I sent it somewhere worthwhile.”

He looked away, kept paddling. Champion gazed at him for a long moment before going on.

“And then came the Majestic-12 bounty hunt during which the mis-sile-builder, Jonathan Killian, had your girlfriend, Elizabeth Gant, call-sign Fox, cruelly beheaded in a guillotine. This was a pivotal event in your life. You retreated from military activity for four months. Your superiors thought it had broken you. You can’t imagine how surprised they were when you turned up one day and said that you were ready to get back to work. Yet what did they do with you? They made you a teacher, and then they hid you away up here in a lowly equipment-testing unit. Another insulting assignment.”

Champion waited for him to respond.

“Fox’s death did break me,” Schofield said. “But ultimately I . . . I figured out a way to cope.”

“How?” Champion said. “I am genuinely curious. How did you cope? Like I did, by becoming immune to emotion?”

Schofield thought for a moment.

“No. No, I didn’t do that. In those first few months after the Majestic-12 thing, the Corps sent me to a bunch of psychiatrists, top-of-the-range shrinks, all with Top Secret clearance, the best money can buy. Hell, one of them charged a thousand bucks an hour.