Marsha locked her intimidating gaze on the junior. “Millions of people commute along the East Coast every day, and they take thousands of different routes.”
The cocky young technician should have kept his mouth shut, but he didn’t. “He’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”
“What, like one of the Boston Marathon bomb suspects did when he went on the run? Boston police traced him to a twenty-block radius and shut down the city. But it still took a day to locate the suspect, and even then he was found by a civilian. Plus, they were hunting an untrained kid.” She walked to a map of the States and pointed at a dot that looked no bigger than a pinhead. “Here’s Boston.” She swept her arm fully outstretched in a complete circular movement over the map. “And by contrast, this is the area we have to search for Cochrane.” She pointed at the technician. “I need you because you’re good with algorithms. But beyond that your opinions are useless to me, so keep your head down and your mouth shut unless you’ve got something important to contribute.”
Now he was quiet, with a look on his face that said he’d just been sucker-punched.
Pete Duggan called out from the far end of the room, “Ma’am, would one of your intelligence advisers be able to comment on Cochrane’s capabilities?”
Marsha was relieved to be once again fielding questions from seasoned members of the team, and particularly Duggan, whom she deeply admired and had specifically asked to be included. She looked at Patrick, who said nothing. She looked at Alistair.
The MI6 controller pushed himself away from the wall and smiled, his superb intellect encapsulated by the glint in his blue eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m always reminded on occasions like this to jettison loquaciousness in favor of dicendi campus.”
Marsha rolled her eyes as she placed a hand on Alistair’s forearm. “Speak in words we can all understand.”
“That’s broadly the English translation of what I just said in Latin.” Alistair’s eyes changed from charm to steel. “William Cochrane spent five years in French Special Forces.”
Duggan asked, “The Legion? GCP?”
“Correct. I didn’t care about that when he joined MI6. What mattered to me was that I wanted to put him through a year of hell. I thought it would break him, as it had done to others before him. It didn’t.” Alistair studied Duggan. “You look like a man who knows a thing or two about hardship.”
When Duggan responded, it was in a tone that was neither bragging nor disrespectful, the tone of a professional operator. “I was in Seal Team 6. Spent most of my career in water. It was a hardship and humbling.”
“And the longest you’d spent in said water?”
“Thirteen hours and four minutes. Me and another guy, both of us in scuba gear and on the surface of the Indian Ocean with a rope between us while waiting for a mobile U.S. sub’s antenna to break through the sea, snag the rope, draw us together as it sailed onward, and put us on its back. Was cold and dark out there.”
Alistair nodded. “I’m sure it was. Cochrane’s longest time in water during his training program was four days, nine hours, and thirty-two seconds. And it was in the North Atlantic. During November. He had food, and water, and a dry suit and buoyancy aids, but not much else.”
One of the agents frowned. “Superspy?”
“No.” Alistair wagged his finger. “Human being. Like anyone in their right mind, he doesn’t like misery. And that’s his strength. His mind can overcome his body’s craving for rest and warmth and no further pain. That’s why he survived the program I put him through. When he’s in the field, he’s constantly fighting the very natural desire to give up. He’s no super anything. He is who he is.”
Marsha pointed again at the map of the States. “Non-Bureau law enforcement agencies are taking the lead on trying to capture him while he’s still in transit, including being all over public transportation routes. But they’ve got one heck of a task. We, on the other hand, are going to focus on ground that we can control. The only way he’s going to get the answers he wants is to grab someone in the CIA and make that person talk.” She looked at Sheridan, imagining Cochrane putting his hand around the officer’s throat. “The D.C. area is where we’ll get him, and I’ll lock down the entire city to do it if necessary.” She checked her watch. “Okay. I’m going to task all agents in this room individually. Pete — after that, I want to speak to you and your men so we can run through response and takedown drills.”
Pete Duggan nodded. “One thing I’m confused about — how come Cochrane made the International Avenue crossing and showed his face? Strikes me, guy like him would know all about covert infiltration.”
Marsha agreed. “It’s possible he was desperate or simply made a mistake, though I don’t buy that.”
“Guess we’ll just have to ask him when we got him in a cell.”
Alistair was once again leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. “You won’t need to. William deliberately chose to use the crossing knowing that it would be reinforced with extra men. He let us see him because he wanted us to know he’s in the States.”
Marsha turned to the MI6 officer. “What?”
Alistair opened his eyes and looked right at Marsha. “Once he’s found out the truth about why he’s on the run, he wants you to get very close to him, though I must warn you it will be completely on his terms.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
In the rural outskirts of Moscow, Antaeus lit a candle and carried it into his study. He could have availed himself of the room’s electric lights or its gas lamps, but sometimes he just liked being in near darkness, with the smell of wick and wax, and light that erratically flickered to produce a partial, indistinct representation of the surroundings.
He sat down at his old wooden desk and lit a cheroot that was a gift from a Dutchman whose tobacco emporium was one of the best in Europe. The shop also happened to have a tunnel to a listening post where the Russians could eavesdrop on the American embassy in The Hague.
The chalkboard was in front of him; names on it appeared and disappeared each time a scant breeze nudged the candle’s flame left and right.
Senator Colby Jellicoe.
Charles and Lindsay Sheridan.
Ed Parker.
Gregori Shonin.
Project Ferryman.
Cobalt.
The key players in Antaeus’s plan to cause a major catastrophe and derail the United States.
Only Will Cochrane stood in his way of achieving that result.
He looked at Will’s name on the other side of the board, drew a circle around it so that the arrow from the code names of his four assassins was touching it, and drew four more arrows pointing at the circle from different angles.
Against the first new arrow, he wrote, STATE & COUNTY POLICE FORCES.
The second arrow, THE MEDIA AND CONCERNED U.S. CITIZENS.
The third, MARSHA GAGE/FBI/HRT.
The fourth, SHERIDAN/CIA/AUGUSTUS & ELIJAH.
Five arrows in total that wanted Will Cochrane incarcerated or dead.
Cochrane stood no chance of getting anywhere near Project Ferryman.
But something was nagging Antaeus.
He held the candle close to the reptile tank containing the chameleon. Its pigmentation had altered to reflect the fact that earlier today Antaeus had cleaned the tank and replenished it with lighter-colored foliage. He was sure the reptile liked to frequently change its appearance. Just like Ellie Hallowes.