W
ill called Roger from his cell phone. “He’s not going after me. Unless I back down, he’s going to identify someone I care about and kill that person.” He told him about what had happened two hours earlier. “What’s your status?”
“The team remains static, though yesterday one of them left in a vehicle for three hours.”
“Did you follow him?”
“I made the decision that we stay focused on the bulk of the team.”
“Was he carrying anything when he returned?”
“No. But if his trip was to meet an asset and get weapons from him, the stuff could have been left in the car. You want us to take a peek?”
“Not yet. We can’t risk them finding out we’ve tampered with their vehicles. How many cars do they have?”
“Two. Both SUVs, parked in the hotel garage. Accessible within two minutes of them leaving their rooms.”
“Any sightings of someone who fits Mikhail’s description?”
“Don’t think so, but we can’t be certain. Hotel’s got too many damn entrances for us to cover all bases.”
“Assessment?”
“I reckon they’re still waiting.”
Will said, more to himself, “What for?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“I might be able to get back tonight. I’ve got a couple of things to sort out first.”
The line was silent for five seconds.
“Your world ain’t exactly brimming over with people who care about you. There’s only one person who fits that description.”
“I agree.”
Sarah Goldsmith, née Cochrane, Will’s sister.
“You think that person’s been identified?”
“I don’t know! Probably not, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get the person to a safe place.”
“Police?”
“Not a chance.” Will had to entrust his sister’s safety to individuals he knew and who had proven themselves to him. “I’ve got people.”
“Okay.” Roger sighed. “I think you’re right about the witch hunt. But this is getting out of control. The risks are—”
“Bloody obvious!” Will regretted snapping. In a calmer voice he said, “Not a word to anyone about all of this.”
“Sure. When are you seeing her?”
“Today.”
“Good luck, because it’s going to be a fucking difficult conversation.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
W
ill sat on a bench in London’s St. James’s Park and waited. In front of him was a waterway containing ducks, pelicans, and other wildlife. Visible to his left was Whitehall’s Horse Guards Parade. Red-coated mounted Life Guards soldiers were moving in formation across the square, passing in front of the Old Admiralty’s regal buildings and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Will wondered if Major Dickie Mountjoy came here during his daily trips down memory lane. He decided he would because Dickie’s raison d’être was pomp, ceremony, and the celebration of bygone ages, and Whitehall had that in abundance.
A woman navigated her way across the parade ground, grimacing as one of the army horses defecated close to her. In her early sixties, she was slightly dumpy, wearing a winter anorak, tweed skirt, purple hat, and flat shoes, and holding a carrier bag. Will kept his eyes on her as she moved into the park, walked along the footpath adjacent to the waterway, and sat down next to him.
Placing a hand over Will’s hand, she patted it, smiled, and said in a well-spoken voice, “It’s been a while, my dear.”
Will gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s great to see you again. Thanks for coming at such short notice, Betty.”
Betty Mayne shrugged. “That’s what I’m here for.” She reached into the bag and withdrew a loaf of sliced bread. “Make yourself useful.” She handed Will several slices of the bread. “But don’t let the greedy ducks take it all.” She began tearing a slice into pieces and tossing bits of bread into the water.
Will looked at the bread he was holding, felt unsure what to do, then began feeding the birds.
“Not done this before, have you?”
“I can’t remember.”
“That’s no surprise.”
Will tossed a larger piece of bread into the water and watched ducks noisily race toward it. “I need you and Alfie.”
Betty’s husband.
“And Robert and Joanna.”
A retired married couple.
Betty nodded. “What for?”
“Two of you need to camp in my house. The other two need to take a holiday—Scottish Highlands, North Wales, one of the coastal islands, anywhere remote.”
“Babysitting?”
“Yes.”
“Threat to target?”
“Severe.”
“Target’s name?”
Will tore off another piece of bread, held his hand still, and said quietly, “It’s my sister.”
Betty turned toward him, her expression one of total sympathy. “Oh no. You poor thing.”
Emotion welled up inside him. He tried to keep it in check. “I need you to start today. I’m so sorry I couldn’t give you more warning.”
“Nonsense.” Betty’s tone was now authoritative, her posture strong. “We’ll get this sorted. Don’t you worry about a thing. And the whole point of us is that despite our age, we can move quicker than your other assets. That was your idea, remember?”
Betty was right. He’d chosen the two husband-and-wife teams because they were retirees, therefore were not tied to an employer, and could support him at a moment’s notice. It also helped that Betty was a former undercover operative with Fourteenth Intelligence Company that her husband Alfie had been a sergeant in the SAS, that Robert had been Alfie’s captain, and that Joanna had been an MI5 case officer. The four operatives had first met in the mid-seventies in a farmhouse in a remote part of the United Kingdom. Joanna was there to debrief a source, the others there to ensure the agent and handler were protected. The agent never showed up; instead armed IRA men did.
Betty asked, “What’s the threat to your home?”
“It’s unlikely there’s a direct threat. I need someone in there, as it’s probable that I’m going to receive some very important letters, letters that will be trying to warn me off an operation. I’m going to be overseas. If a letter comes, its contents must be relayed to me straight away. But I need two of you in there just in case.”
Betty seemed to consider this. “When do we collect your sister?”
“Today. She should be home around six. And it won’t be just her, we need her husband as well.”
“Are they expecting us?”
“No.”
“In that case, you’re going to have to do some pretty smooth talking to her, because”—she rubbed her legs—“the days of me being able to take part in a snatch operation are long gone.”
Will smiled. Betty had always reminded him of the no-nonsense, get-on-with-it women who’d built Lancaster bomber planes, nursed air raid casualties, or parachuted into German-occupied France during World War II. “I will be talking to her. But I could do with your help to keep her calm.”
With pinpoint accuracy, Betty threw the last of her bread into the gullet of a pelican. “Then that’s settled. Alfie and I will pack our walking sticks and thermal undies; Robert and Joanna can play mum and dad spending a few days visiting their son’s London pad.”
As Will kept his eyes on Betty, he felt safe and secure. Betty was a remarkable woman, had a backbone of steel, and was a highly experienced operative. But what set her apart from others in Will’s life was that she had always displayed an unconditional compassion toward him. He suspected she viewed him as the son she’d never had. He didn’t mind, because to him she felt like family. “Is there anything you need?”
Betty patted his hand again. “Silly boy. You leave everything to us. We know what we’re doing.”
F
rom the backseat of the vehicle, Will checked his watch. It was ten minutes past six. The three-bedroom row house in Richmond’s Manor Grove was still in darkness, as were most of the other houses in the street. Will’s sister and her husband were both partners in a law firm; Will imagined that the rest of the street’s occupants were also white-collar professionals and were either still working or on their way home.
From the front passenger seat, Alfie glanced over his shoulder at Will and said in a south London accent, “Bit of money around here these days, ain’t there, sunshine. Make you wish you were in the private sector?”
Will smiled, though felt uneasy. “I don’t think the private sector would have me.”
Alfie pulled out a filterless cigarette, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, lit it with a match, and partially rolled down his window. The sixty-five-year-old ex-SAS man was short and had a stocky frame that was clearly once very powerful, but now moved a little more slowly and more awkwardly. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit, shirt, and tie, and Will knew that Betty had made him dress up for the occasion. “Look at ’em. Just ordinary terraced houses like my old folk used to live in. Couldn’t afford it now. Bet these places cost a quarter of a million.”
Beside him, Betty gave a disapproving sigh. “You’re so out of touch with London prices, angel. A place like this would be at least half a million.”
“Blimey, petal.” Alfie looked out of the window, blowing a long stream of smoke into the cold exterior air. “Where did we go wrong?”
“We joined the army.”
“Oh yeah, that was it.”
Will looked over his shoulder in the direction from which he thought Sarah and her husband would be entering the street. He saw nothing, but wondered if there were armed men hiding somewhere on the route in an unlit vehicle, waiting to ram Sarah’s car when she arrived and gun her down. “I’m going farther up the street.”
Betty said, “Off you pop then, my dear . . .”
Will opened the door and put one foot out onto the street.
“ . . . But I hope you’re wearing a warm vest underneath that thin suit.”
“I . . . I’ll see you in a minute.” He shut the car door and walked fast up the road until he reached another vehicle that was facing him.
The sedan car was at least twenty years old. Robert and Joanna were inside, and as he moved to the side of the vehicle Joanna rolled down her window and beamed at him. “It’s lovely to see you again, William.” Her formerly blonde, now gray hair was tied back in the severe style that she’d always had it in since attending the Cheltenham Ladies’ College as a teenager. It was at odds with the almost permanent smile that she wore. At sixty-one years of age, she was the youngest in the team, though a recent onset of arthritis in her hips had aged her once pretty face and her physique. “I was sooo excited when Betty told me we could come out to play with you.”
Will nodded, unsure how to respond.
“Hello, Willy old boy.” This came from Robert, who was leaning across his wife from the passenger seat.
Will had always hated it when the ex-SAS captain called him Willy. Or old boy, for that matter. Will leaned forward so that his face was by the window. “Hello, Robbie.”
Robert made the tiniest grimace at being called Robbie. His expression changed, and when he spoke it was in a clipped tone favored by army officers. “Hunkered down in a car”—he patted Joanna’s thigh—“bit of stuff by your side, watching a place and knowing it could all go to rat shit at any moment.” He grinned. “Just like the good old days, eh Willy?”
Will smiled. “Your days, not mine.”
Joanna asked, “Is there anything you’d like us to do with your place while we’re there?”
Robert huffed, “Stop mothering the boy.”
Will thought for a while. “Actually, I’ve got some boxes that need unpacking. Don’t feel obliged, but it would be a big help.”
Robert was about to say something, but Joanna held a finger to his lips and said, “We’d absolutely
love
to.” She looked mischievous. “But have you got any naughty boy things you’d rather this shrinking violet didn’t see?”
“Hardly.” Will laughed.
As did Robert. “Shrinking violet?”
Joanna looked sharply at her husband while opening the glove compartment, withdrawing a Heckler & Koch MK23 handgun, expertly checking its workings, and saying, “No chance of being a shrinking violet when married to you. Is there?”
Robert shrugged. “Never said I was a saint.”
Joanna held his hand, looked at him with adoring eyes, and said, “My man.” She glanced back at Will. “When she arrives, make it fast. Speed confuses most people. Betty and Alfie will deal with the fallout en route to destination.”
Will nodded.
Robert dropped his hand into his door’s compartment and placed his hand over the hilt of a Remington 870 shotgun. His demeanor was now completely different. “
Very
fast, Mr. Cochrane.”
“Will.” Joanna was staring straight ahead.
Will turned and saw a vehicle’s headlights in the distance. He stepped away from Joanna’s car and moved into darkness. The vehicle passed Betty and Alfie’s car, passed Sarah’s house, passed Will, and continued on up the street. Will checked his watch again. Six twenty-five. He silently cursed, and wondered if Sarah and her husband were delayed at work or had gone out for an early dinner. The last direct flight to Germany tonight was an 8:00
P.M.
Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt, but he doubted he’d make it, meaning he’d have to route to Germany via another European capital.
Another set of headlights emerged at the far end of the street. They grew closer, and the car’s engine noise changed as gears shifted and the car slowed. It stopped right outside Sarah’s house, and its ignition was turned off. Doors opened. A woman and man exited the vehicle. Both were dressed in business suits and were clutching leather attaché cases. They were Sarah and her husband, James.
They moved to their front door, entered the house, and shut the door behind them, and within seconds all of the downstairs lights were illuminated. Will jogged back down the street until he was by Betty’s car. She lowered her window but wasn’t looking at him, instead had her eyes fixed on the property.
Will muttered, “It’s imperative I have no idea where you’ll take her. But if you get spooked by anything,
anything
at all, then move to somewhere else. Money’s no object. I’ll cover all costs.”
While keeping her head motionless, Betty replied, “Just get her and her husband in the car. We’ll take it from there.”