Shivering violently, he watched the place for four hours, saw an older man and three younger men coming and going from buildings, and a woman and a teenage girl doing chores. Will’s physical situation was bad. He’d had no food for two days, and his weak state meant his body was struggling to generate heat.
By midday the sun was up high in the cloudless sky but the temperature was still dreadfully cold, at least fifteen degrees below freezing. Will saw the men get into a pickup truck and drive off the property along its only track. When they were gone, Will rose to his feet, brushed snow and ice from his face, and shuffled painfully down an escarpment until he was in the valley. Keeping the outhouses between him and the main residence, he carefully moved forward, desperate not to be seen by the woman or the girl. He reached the jetty, moved along it in a crouch until he was beside the trawler, and searched the boat’s metal hull. He found what he was looking for, close to the bow on the vessel’s port side. Crouching lower, he looked at the fist-sized circle that had been scratched on the hull’s paint. He took out his handgun, ejected the magazine, and used the gun clip to scratch a cross within the circle. Replacing the magazine in the gun, he carefully made his way back off the jetty, past the outbuildings, and back up the escarpment.
Three hours later the vehicle and men returned. Will’s teeth and jaw were shuddering uncontrollably, but he didn’t care because nobody could hear him here. The men exited their truck and went about their duties.
After a further two hours it was dark. Will was lying on his front, his arms wrapped around his chest even though they did nothing to get him warm. His breathing was shallow and he could taste blood in his mouth; his eyeballs throbbed in agony from the cold; the shaking continued. The house was fully illuminated again, with two exterior lights switched on as well as tiny lights lining the jetty. Will imagined that the occupants of the settlement were sitting down in their house to a hot dinner and drinks. He desperately wanted to go down there, to find any shelter and warmth, but he knew he had to wait.
Seven hours later, it was midnight. Only one light was illuminated within the house, but the outside lights were still switched on. The older man stepped out of the house’s sea-facing door, stopped, lit a cigarette or cigar, and blew smoke before walking along the jetty. He moved to the front of the pier, turned toward the trawler, crouched down for a brief moment, stood again, walked back to the house, and disappeared inside. Will hauled himself to his feet, staggered, collapsed onto his knees, raised himself up again, and took agonizing steps down the hill and into the valley. His mind was a daze and he barely knew if things around him were real anymore. He desperately tried to stay conscious but felt that he was minutes away from losing the last remaining mental strength he had. Using a hand against the walls of the outbuildings to steady himself, he staggered to the jetty. He collapsed to the snow-covered ground, silently cursed, knew that he could no longer stand, and instead used his hands to pull himself inch by inch along the jetty. Snow entered his mouth; he tried to spit it out, gave up trying to do so, but kept pulling himself along the walkway until he was by the trawler’s bow. He looked at the circle and cross scratched on the hull.
Three horizontal lines had been engraved over both.
It was the covert signal telling him that the Norwegian captain of this trawler knew the British intelligence officer was nearby, that it was safe for him to approach the house, and that the captain was ready to sail him out of this country.
Will rolled onto his back and stared at the spectacular star-filled sky before his eyes closed without him wishing them to do so. He wondered how long it would be before the captain found his frozen dead body.
SIX
FBI director Bo Haupman had long ago decided that the CIA was a rootless entity because it wasn’t law enforcement, military, or civilian. Its officers reflected that amorphous state; they were soulless creatures who, when asked to explain what results they’d achieved and how those results mattered one bit to the man on the street, would look coy and use the excuse of secrecy to avoid the question, when in reality they just plain and simple didn’t have a concrete answer. For sure, post-9/11 the Agency had taken the lead on counterterrorism work, turning many of its young bucks into John Wayne wannabes who relished the prospect of swapping their suits and attaché cases and diplomatic life for a dishdasha, an AK-47, and a tent on an Afghan mountainside. Right now, they had a bit of tangible purpose — we shot this bad guy, did a predator drone strike against this bunch of crazies, put this leader into a cell with only a blanket and a bucket of water and three burly men for company. But you could see in their eyes that they knew the party wouldn’t last forever, that pretty soon they’d be going back to the world of paper reports, cocktails, agonizingly boring analysis, and the only highlight of their lives being the opportunity to listen in on a telephone intercept and learn that a terrorist’s wife wants her husband to pick up some potatoes, chicken, and cabbage for dinner.
That’s not to say he disliked all Agency officers. Put them in a room with a drink in their hands and they could be great company, because they’d go out of their way to talk about anything other than their work. Put a bunch of feds in a room and within five minutes all of them would be talking about how the perps are getting away with murder because the Bureau’s snowed under with paperwork. Yes, Agency people could be light relief.
Charles Sheridan wasn’t.
On more than one occasion, Bo had gotten himself to sleep by fantasizing about clubbing the high-ranking CIA officer to death and dumping his body in the middle of a lake.
Not that Bo could actually do that. Despite having shot a few scum in his career, and being the size of a bear that was a few years past its prime, Bo was a gentle man, and it had come as a relief when promotion had enabled him to swap his sidearm for a desk.
Still, the fantasy remained, and he imagined doing it to Sheridan right now as the CIA officer placed his leather bag on the floor, removed a raincoat that matched the style Agency and Secret Service characters wore in the movies, slumped into a chair, and gave Bo his sternest Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff look. A look that was undeserved, given that Sheridan had retired from the infantry with the rank of major before joining the Agency.
They were in a small room in the Bureau’s headquarters in the J. Edgar Hoover building. Bo had chosen the room as it had no table in it, and was informal and unimpressive. That would grate on Sheridan, because he would have expected the red-carpet treatment for someone of his seniority and power.
Bo gestured toward the woman next to him and asked Sheridan, “You don’t mind if my secretary takes notes, do you?”
“I’d rather she didn’t.”
“I only asked out of courtesy.”
“Do what you want, then.”
“And what do you want?”
Sheridan glanced at the secretary. “You sure she should be in the room?”
Bo smiled, hoping he looked condescending. “The last time you and I spoke without notes being taken, you reported the content of our conversation to the head of the Agency. I didn’t mind, though I was concerned when I heard that your interpretation of what was said was… less than truthful.” Bo placed his ankle on his other leg. “In any case, she’s security cleared.”
“Not by us.”
Bo waved a hand dismissively. “But she is by me, so she stays. What do you want?”
Sheridan stared at the secretary for a few seconds before locking his gaze back on Bo. “I want a bloodhound.”