Both men had served alongside his real father and were there at the end.
They’d subsequently supported his family, without Will or his sister knowing.
They were complex, tough, yet ultimately magnificent men.
Will looked at them both and felt like their child.
A kid who was all bravado and uncaring of scratches and bruises caused during his imagination-driven adventures in the forests surrounding his home. And yet one who also needed love and security.
Now that security was being taken away from him.
By men who were acting like a mother who knew the time was right to cut her apron strings.
He had to trust their judgment.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Dickie Mountjoy grumbled under his breath as his front doorbell rang. No doubt it was the postman again, who’d come with some soddin’ special delivery or whatever else it was these days that that was no better than a good old stamp with the queen’s image on it, stuck like it should be on a bit of paper and shoved through a red pillar box. Military men, he’d long ago decided, understand change just fine: new weapons, tactics, wars, blundering politicians telling them what to do and them doing it anyway because soldiers know duty even when it means supporting a blithering stack of spineless ignorance. But civvies like change because it keeps their boring lives on their toes. New this, new that; special or recorded deliveries; change for the ruddy sake of change.
As he reached for the door, he decided he was going to tell the postman that, no, he wasn’t going to put his signature on some cruddy electronic screen just so that he could be given a package that belonged to him, because the screen didn’t work and nobody seemed to care that his signature never came out looking like it was supposed to.
He pulled open the door, ready to give the postman a dressing down as if he were a young Guardsman who had a hair out of place while standing to attention in Wellington Barracks.
But the man before him wasn’t the postman.
It was Will Cochrane.
Wearing a suit and overcoat.
No hair out of place.
He was smiling. Looked thinner than when Dickie had last seen him.
Dickie’s bottom lip trembled as he stood ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back, his immaculate civilian clothes pressed to the standards of an off-duty major partaking of a glass of port in the officers’ mess. “You… you got here then.”
“It took me a while.”
“And I suppose you’re here to flog me some of your dodgy life insurance?”
Will’s smile broadened. “Something like that.”
“Except, everyone knows your cover as a salesman was all a big fib.” Dickie pointed at the ceiling. “Been to your home?”
“I have.”
“Like what you see?”
“I called Phoebe on my way over here. She told me my place had been trashed. You didn’t need to…”
“Do you like what you see, or not?”
Will was overwhelmed with gratitude. “I like what I see.”
Dickie held out his hand, keeping his expression gruff to suppress the true emotions that were searing within him. “Good to have you back, soldier.”
Will shook his hand.
No embraces for Englishmen like these.
Just a brief eye contact to recognize that both men knew exactly what the other was thinking and feeling, and that no fuss needed to be made of those sensations.
Will said, “Phoebe also told me that you’d only let me take you to a doctor. I’ve pulled some strings and fast-tracked an appointment.”
“When do we go?”
“Grab your coat. You’re on parade in ten minutes.”
They left the apartment block, neither man speaking, their breath steaming in the cold London air, walking side by side over snow-covered ground, passing trees that had Christmas lights draped over them. Minutes later they entered the Princess Street healthcare clinic.
They were inside for an hour. Sitting in the waiting room while ignoring each other and reading back issues of National Geographic magazine; sitting in a doctor’s consulting room while tests were made on Dickie; back in the waiting room to read about volcano eruptions and indigenous tribes in Botswana; and back in the consulting room.
That’s when Dickie was given the news.
They left in silence.
Despite his arthritis, Dickie marched alongside Will with the vigor and precision of a commanding officer who was determined that his last-ever inspection of his troops should be one of his best.
As they entered West Square and headed toward their apartment house, music was playing from one of the nearby houses.
Dean Martin’s “Let it Snow.”
The song that had played in a loop in Will’s head as he’d staggered through treacherous weather in Greenland, thinking that soon he would be dead.
The communal front door to the apartment house opened. Phoebe and David were there, Phoebe wearing clothes that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a strip club, David wearing a food-stained apron over jeans and a sweater that had a reindeer stitched on it. They were holding each other, looks of concern on their faces.
Dickie placed a hand on Will’s arm and stopped.
Will stayed with him.
They were surrounded by the gorgeous Edwardian square.
Ten yards away from Phoebe and David.
Dickie looked at Will. “You gonna tell ’em, or should I?”
Will placed his hand on top of Dickie’s hand. “Major Mountjoy, you’re the highest-ranking officer here.”
Dickie nodded, took a step forward, stood to attention, and smiled. “False alarm. Just a poncey bronchial infection. Antibiotics will sort it. This old boy ain’t heading for the heavens just yet.”
Phoebe had tears of joy running down her face as she ran as fast as her heels would let her and gave the major a hug.
Dickie looked flummoxed, then smiled with genuine warmth as he tenderly put his arms around her and patted her back. “There, there, my dear. Everything’s going to be okay.”
She rushed to Will, leapt into his arms, wrapped her legs around him, and exclaimed, “Will, Will!”
Will laughed as he lowered her to the ground. “And it’s good to see you too, Phoebe.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“None of that nonsense!” Phoebe seized the back of Will’s head and planted a big kiss on his lips. She grabbed his hand and Dickie’s. “Come on, you two: David’s cooked some mince pies and we’ve got some mulled wine on the go.” She walked with them toward David, who was now her bona fide boyfriend and had a huge smile on his face.
It was a smile matched by those on Will’s and Dickie’s faces.
They were all together.
Home.
And this was just what Will wanted more than anything else in the world.
THIRTY-NINE
The Russian man stood outside the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C.
He knew that if he entered the J. Edgar Hoover Building there’d be no turning back. He would be a traitor to the motherland, give America an enormous tactical advantage on all matters of West versus East espionage, and would change the rest of his life forever because he would live it in the States.
A new identity.
An American salary that would be given to him in return for every Russian secret he knew. Protection if it was needed. A nice house, hopefully one that was in the countryside and overlooking water. A place where he could live peacefully while doing his studies and writing.
None of those things meant his life in America would be better. But there was something else here that would make a world of difference to him.
The thing that Will Cochrane’s message had told him he could have if he came to the States.