“The world’s his oyster.” Alistair’s eyes rapidly took in everything he could see on the map. “You assure me that you’re going to do this professionally? That you’ll take him alive if you can?”
“Yes, but I can’t assure you that the mavericks think the same way.” She was referring to the CIA.
“I wouldn’t ask you to assure me on a matter that’s beyond your control.” He was deep in thought. “Jellicoe’s appearance at the Senate yesterday has changed everything.” He turned his gaze to Marsha. “Patrick and I will help you in every way we can, because we want you to find Cochrane, before the mavericks close in.”
Marsha momentarily wondered if Alistair was trying to flatter her, but rapidly decided not. The MI6 controller’s blue eyes were cold, piercing, and gleaming with intelligence. She’d been wrong about him. He most certainly wasn’t crazy or a joke. “Okay, I buy that.”
“I’m so glad you do.”
“But you’re putting a lot of faith in me. Cochrane could be anywhere.”
“Does that challenge daunt you?”
“No.”
“That’s what I’d heard. And I’d also heard that you were head of the Bureau task force hunting Cobalt.”
Marsha hesitated before asking, “Haupman told you that?”
Alistair nodded. “I told Director Haupman that you and Cochrane had Cobalt in common, because I’d tasked Mr. Cochrane to capture Cobalt.”
In a near whisper, Marsha asked, “Do you know why they pulled the plug on the Cobalt operation?”
“No. I asked, and was told to mind my own business. I kept asking, and kept getting told the same thing. I do know it was authorized by our prime minister and your president. But why they made that bizarre and downright dangerous decision is beyond me. By my calculation, Cobalt’s money has enabled terrorists to kill at least seven thousand people during the last five years.”
“Our most conservative assessment is three times that figure.”
“And you could be right.”
“I should still be looking for Cobalt.”
“I agree, but like it or not, we’ve both been given a different assignment.” Alistair took a step closer to the map and put on his reading glasses. “What’s motivating Cochrane right now?”
“To stay alive, evade capture, vanish, probably change identities and live out the rest of his life in a country without a U.S. extradition treaty.”
“Maybe. Come closer.”
Marsha took a step forward.
Alistair pointed at the map. “It was a good hunch to look west.”
“Just covering bases. It produced shit.”
Alistair turned toward her, and in a flash his icy demeanor was replaced with a look of utter charm. “My dear, you underestimate yourself that easily?”
“Hell, no.”
“That’s my girl.” His icy expression returned. “It’s quite possible that Mr. Cochrane has an altogether different motivation. Have you heard of a CIA operation code-named Ferryman?”
“Means nothing to me.”
“Nor us, but Ferryman protocols are responsible for putting my boy on the run. And he won’t like that one bit.” While keeping his eyes fixed on Marsha and without looking at the map, he stretched out his arm and placed a finger on a country. “Keep looking west, because I think Cochrane’s motivation is to find pure gold.”
Marsha looked at the map. Alistair’s finger was positioned in North America.
THIRTEEN
Despite his best attempts not to, Will imagined that the noise of his boots crunching over ice was rather the sound of his vertebrae grinding together. Though it wasn’t carrying anything aside from the weight of Will’s muscular physique, his back was in agony from his efforts to get across a landscape that was equal parts beautiful, undulating, frozen, and terrifying. He’d trained and operated in places like this many times before, but this was different because he had no backup, no job, no identity, and no purpose beyond establishing why his former employers had turned on him.
For years he’d felt dislocated from the real world. But it was perverse compensation that the secret world had made up for that by embracing his flaws and unique talents. Now that that world no longer wanted him, he felt more alone than ever, and he could feel the weight of the planet crushing him with the heel of its boot.
At some point soon it would snap his spine in half, but not yet, because Will had to keep going to find the truth about Ferryman. Whatever the CIA operation was, there was no doubt that it had a vested interest in keeping Antaeus alive. Getting to the bottom of that reason had been plaguing Will ever since he’d walked away from the aftermath of the gunfight in Norway. He’d considered the possibility that Antaeus had been recruited by the CIA, but had immediately discounted that option because the spymaster would never betray his motherland or, more important, abandon his achieved ambition of being the West’s most formidable espionage opponent. Perhaps the Agency needed Antaeus alive as part of a bigger operation to disrupt Russia, one within which Antaeus wittingly or unwittingly played a crucial role.
No. That too just felt wrong. Antaeus couldn’t be manipulated by anyone, knowingly or otherwise, because he was always several steps ahead of even the brightest minds in Western intelligence. That left the bad-taste-in-the-mouth option. One that dovetailed with Herald’s declaration. Antaeus had recruited a high-ranking mole in the Agency, someone who was powerful enough to warn Antaeus off if danger was drawing close to him. Perhaps, given who was called in by the Agency duty officer when Will had the spymaster in his sights, that person was Charles Sheridan.
But that still didn’t explain what Ferryman was and why it was deemed so important that the U.S. and U.K. leaders had decided to hang Will Cochrane out to dry. Sheridan might be on Antaeus’s books, but it would be impossible for him alone to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, protect Antaeus, and put Will on the run. This was about something bigger than a mole, and that left an even nastier taste in Will’s mouth.
Nor did it make sense that Antaeus was alive. Three years ago, Will was given independent confirmation that Antaeus was found dead in a decimated vehicle, after Will’s bomb had gone off. The man he’d seen in Norway looked much older and more fragile than the one he’d watched getting into his car in a Moscow suburb. But there was absolutely no doubt it was the same man whose body had been blown to pieces.
Up to two weeks ago, everything had been so very different. He and Task Force S’s team had been scouring Europe, Africa, and South Asia for Cobalt. The objective was clear: kill him on sight. Will had support to conduct a mission of overriding importance. Then Alistair had called him and said that he was to abort the mission, effective immediately. Will had argued with Alistair, saying that he was sure they were closing in on the terrorist financier, but Will’s controller had won the argument when he told him that the British prime minister had ordered that all efforts to find Cobalt were to be ceased.
Everything had gone wrong since then. And nothing made sense. So Will continued walking, determined to get answers even though he now wondered whether he’d get to the United States to do so.
According to the trawler captain’s map, Will had traversed fifty-two miles of Greenland’s landmass. But such was the arduous nature of the journey that it had felt three times as long. The clarity of the air didn’t help — mountains that appeared to be only one mile away were actually fifteen miles distant. Reaching them seemed to take an age and made his mind cry out for variety.