What? I thought.
Inside was a young Indian man. He was bound in chains. Around his throat was razor wire that had cut into his skin. Blood had drooled out of his mouth; more of it covered his naked upper torso, having oozed out of a bullet wound in his chest. I placed my fingers against his neck, then his wrist. No heartbeat. He was dead.
The man at the end of the line said, “His name was Sahir. I told him you murdered his father and I could help him get revenge.”
I tried to make sense of it. “Who was his father?”
“The man I described to you. Don’t worry — you didn’t kill him. I did. And tonight I killed his son.”
I gripped my gun harder. “What is this about?”
Calmly, the man replied, “It’s about a young man deliberately getting himself arrested in Afghanistan so that he could convincingly tell the CIA that you’re being targeted for assassination. It’s about flushing you out and doing so in a way that gets you on your own. And ultimately, Mr. Cochrane, it’s about punishing you.”
“For what?”
“One day you’ll find out. Today’s not that day.”
I glanced at Sahir. He looked so young. “Did he know I was going to be here tonight?”
“Yes. He brought me the lamp, box, and sweet Isabella. He thought he was going to kill you. He was wrong.”
“What are you? A terrorist?”
“Oh dear, no. I’m much more special than that.” When he spoke again, his voice was deeper, and he sounded older. “Sahir and I are very different people — different nationalities, ages, backgrounds, and aspirations. But I let Sahir use my code name when he was in captivity so that you knew who you were dealing with. And I pretended to be Sahir when I called you. Misdirection. That’s one thing Sahir and I did have in common. He was good at it. But I was better. I killed him after his work for me was complete.”
“Why haven’t you killed me?”
“I could easily do so right now if I wanted to. Instead, I prefer to punish you. And I’ll keep doing so until I decide that you’ve suffered enough and need to be killed. But for now, you don’t need to fear me. You’ve been punished enough tonight.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the real Trapper.” He sounded like he was running. “Good-bye, Mr. Cochrane. We’ll meet again.”
The line went dead.
I shoved my cell into my pocket and ran across the field to the water tower, clambered up one of the ladders, and raised my gun. Isabella was sitting on the walkway, her knees bunched under her chin, ropes lashed around her wrists and ankles. A sock had been thrust into her mouth. I walked around the base of the water tank, poised to pull the trigger if I found Trapper. But he wasn’t here.
I released Isabella from the ropes and gag. “Are you okay?”
“No… no, I’m not okay.” She started crying.
“Are you injured?”
She shook her head.
“Where is he?”
“Gone, gone…” She lowered her head and started shivering.
“I’m getting help.” I called Patrick, told him what had happened, and ignored his yelling that it was the middle of the night.
He told me that he’d send a team of paramedics to help Isabella, an FBI agent who could ensure matters were kept quiet, and CIA officers who’d sanitize the place. He added that he wished I’d never been born.
I pulled Isabella to her feet, helped her get off the tower, and walked her across the field toward Sahir’s coffin. I had her sit down where she wasn’t close enough to see what had been done to Sahir.
I looked at Sahir, feeling sorry for him. He’d been duped by someone even smarter than him. It had cost him his life. But Trapper would have known that killing him was in no way punishing me. I didn’t know Sahir. Nor did I know Isabella, and in any case, she was alive and unharmed.
None of this made any sense.
Chapter 11
The following morning I drove back to the safe house to collect the rest of my belongings. Patrick and his team had left the farm thirty minutes ago. His CIA specialists had spent hours sanitizing the field of all traces of what had happened there. Paramedics had removed Sahir’s body for cremation. The FBI officer had taken Isabella to a hospital, where she would be treated and monitored before being made to sign nondisclosure documents and flown back home to Argentina.
The sun was out and I was glad, because it meant I didn’t have to worry about being killed. Plus, tonight I was going to take Chrissie out for dinner. When I’d asked Patrick about her, he’d told me that she was still at the safe house, adding, “Why wouldn’t she be? She can’t cover your ass from any other place.” As I’d been about to leave the farm, he’d shaken my hand, given me the very slightest of wry smiles, and said, “Tomorrow, I want you on a plane out of here.”
I knew Patrick wouldn’t discipline Chrissie for helping me. She was too valuable to the Agency, and in any case I suspected Patrick was glad that I’d confronted Trapper and established that I was no longer under immediate threat. Patrick and my MI6 controller had told me that a big operation was looming and they needed me for the job. They couldn’t afford to keep me in hiding much longer.
I stopped my car outside the safe house. It was the time of day when the ordinarily quiet residential street should have been showing some signs of life — people going to work or doing school runs. But it was dead. I decided that the occupants of the street must all be retirees who did nothing more productive all day than watch TV. I wondered if that’s what I’d be doing in thirty plus years’ time. I doubted it.
I was delighted to see that Chrissie’s car was outside. If she wasn’t already awake, I’d start cooking some breakfast to entice her downstairs — play housewife, as she called it; prove to her that I was a modern man who’s good around the house.
I unlocked the front door and entered the house. The kitchen radio was playing samba music, so Chrissie must be up, I thought. I imagined her shamelessly wiggling her hips in time to the beat and then stopping and feeling a bit embarrassed when I caught her. “Honey, I’m home,” I called out.
She didn’t answer. Music’s too loud, I thought.
I removed my jacket and decided that I needed to take a long soak in the bath. I felt grimy and didn’t want Chrissie to have to hang around a man who’d spent the whole night in clothes sodden with rain and sweat.
She wasn’t in the kitchen; she was probably taking a shower. Damn. Now I had a mental image of her naked.
I made myself a black coffee and tried not to burn my mouth as I drank it fast to get a much-needed hit of caffeine. I felt exhausted; no doubt I needed at least a couple of hours’ sleep in the safe house before we went out tonight, or I stood no chance of being good company over dinner. And I’d need to be at my very best, because apparently tomorrow I was on a one-way ticket out of town.
My back was hurting; I walked toward the living room so I could finish the rest of my coffee resting on the sofa.
Then my world turned over. “No,” I yelled.
My hand involuntarily released the coffee mug.
Wearing a bathrobe, Chrissie was sitting on the sofa.
Dead.
I ran to her, threw myself onto my knees, grabbed her limp hands, and repeated, “No, no, no! Chrissie: no!”
There were two bullet holes in her forehead.
Tears were running down my face, though I was barely aware of them. I was giddy from shock and felt like I was going to vomit. I sat next to her, cradled her head, and rested it against me while rocking her. Between sobs, I asked, “Who did this to you? Who… who could do this to you, my Chrissie? My… Chrissie.”