“What?”
“Try to. Never mind.” Alistair smiled. “Let me guess — you’d like to use this… cluster fuck to enable your own agenda.”
“And what might that agenda be?”
“There are many possibilities, but I’ve not yet settled on one. But don’t worry, it’ll come to me. All I need you to do is to keep opening your mouth.”
Jellicoe leaned back in his chair, huffed, and tossed his pen onto the table.
Ed Parker picked up the reins. “You can’t protect Cochrane.”
Alistair nodded. “Of course we can’t, because we don’t know where he is.”
“You got a number where we can call him?”
Alistair answered truthfully. “No. We had to have him completely off the radar in Norway.”
“Has he called you?”
“No.”
“Likely to?”
“I sincerely doubt he would.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll assume my phone is being monitored by people like you.”
“Doesn’t matter. We will inevitably get him.”
“Inevitably?” What did Alistair think of Parker? Honest face, no anger or hostility in his voice, instead his tone was quiet and resigned, and a moment ago he’d made the briefest of glances at Jellicoe with an expression that said he was uncomfortable with what the senator was saying, or with the situation, or with Jellicoe himself. Alistair decided it was all of those things. But Parker was here because he followed orders. Despite being one of the eight directors who reported to the Director of the CIA, and despite his good nature, he was a weak bureaucrat, a plodder. “Patrick and I have direct lines to our respective premiers, men who’ve always been very keen to ensure that Mr. Cochrane’s free to do his work. Because we’ve no means of getting hold of Cochrane, you’d be doing us a courtesy by inevitably capturing him. But that’s where it will end. We’ll whisk him away and put him back in the field.”
“No you won’t.” This came from Charles Sheridan.
“And why not?”
“We’ll come to that.”
“Oh good, because I do like suspense.” His eyes took in everything he could see of Sheridan. Tall man, early forties, a full head of brown hair that was short at the sides and back, probably meant he was ex-military, the type who thinks that all civilians need a few toughen-you-up years of national service so that the world can be a more disciplined and simpler place. Though they were physically entirely different, his expression matched the hostility of Jellicoe’s, and so far he’d not looked once at the senator; instead his eyes were fixed on the men before him. Sheridan completely agreed with everything Jellicoe represented in this room. He was his ally. No, that was an overly generous assessment. There was no doubt that Jellicoe was running the show, and that meant Sheridan was his pawn.
Pig. Plodder. Pawn.
Alistair wondered which of the three men would speak next.
It was the pig. “We need to know more about the task force you guys run.”
Patrick exclaimed, “No fucking way!”
Alistair glanced at his colleague. Oh dear God. His face was flushed, his eyes wide, and the sinews in his neck were jutting out like knife blades. When Patrick became like this, it usually meant he wanted to rip someone’s head off and eat it. “What my friend means is that in order for us to comply with your request, we’d need written clearance to do so and from the highest authority.”
“And that authority ain’t going to give you clearance, Jellicoe!” Patrick was leaning forward.
Alistair patted a hand on Patrick’s leg, knowing it would only further fuel his colleague’s anger — anger that was useful in situations like this. “Gentlemen, let’s sort this out amicably. I’ve had a rather long and turbulent flight to get here to understand why you’re on the warpath because my officer wanted to kill enemy number one when he had him in his sights, and because in killing Antaeus’s men he breached Project Ferryman protocols. What is Ferryman?”
Jellicoe and Sheridan laughed, and Parker averted his gaze.
“Written authorizations or otherwise, you can’t expect us to tell you anything about our task force and the nature of Cochrane’s work if we don’t understand the implications of his actions in Norway. What is Ferryman?”
The senator composed himself. “I’ll tell you exactly what Project Ferryman is. It’s something much more important than your shitty little special relationship task force, or your loose-cannon lone wolf for that matter.”
Patrick leaned back. “Thankfully, the president and British prime minister don’t share that view.”
Jellicoe seemed unflustered by the comment. “You think so?” He loosened the knot of his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, and rubbed his flabby throat. “Task Force S, formerly known as the Spartan Section, has been in existence for eight years, ever since Will Cochrane passed the Spartan Program.” He pointed at Patrick. “Two years ago, Cochrane landed in your lap and needed your help. You and some of your Agency colleagues started working with the Section and as a result of that work a decision was made from on high to make the unit a British-American collaboration.” Jellicoe picked up his pen and started twirling it around his fingers. “I can give you a blow-by-blow account of the three joint task force missions you’ve conducted if you like. Actually, make that four missions, if you include Cochrane’s unsuccessful hunt for Cobalt.”
The menace in Patrick’s voice was unmistakable as he asked, “How do you know that information?”
For the first time since arriving in Langley, Alistair felt angry. “I too want to know the answer to that, before making a decision on whether to report you to my superiors for obtaining highly classified information without clearance to do so.”
“Clearance?” Jellicoe withdrew a sheet of paper from his jacket, unfolded it, and placed it in the center of the table. “Your superiors?” He tapped the sheet. “You mean these guys?” He pushed the paper toward Alistair with one finger. “Take a moment to read that. Might put things in perspective.”
Alistair read the brief note, recognized the two signatures at the bottom, momentarily closed his eyes while feeling utter dismay, and handed the letter to Patrick.
“This can’t be possible.” The Task Force S co-head’s voice was trembling with rage and shock. He slammed the note onto the table and sat in stunned silence.
As did Alistair. The president and prime minister had personally signed a letter stating that Project Ferryman had nearly been jeopardized by the actions of Will Cochrane and Task Force S, that an international warrant for Cochrane’s arrest had been issued and would remain in force until Cochrane was caught and dealt with away from public scrutiny, that Alistair and Patrick were to give full assistance to Senator Colby Jellicoe in his efforts to apprehend Cochrane, and that with immediate effect Task Force S was permanently shut down.
Jellicoe grinned. “You’re lucky Ferryman’s still intact, or you would have been strung up rather than disbanded. Try and”—his smile broadened—“try to understand that Cochrane’s a dead man walking, and his bosses have just had their balls cut off.”
FIVE
Even though the sun had started rising only minutes earlier, the occupants of the Norwegian coastal home were clearly awake, with smoke billowing from one of its chimneys and interior lights switched on. It had two small outbuildings and a barn, and in front of them a small trawler boat was moored alongside a jetty on a thin inlet of the sea. The place was in a flat valley, carpeted in snow and an icy early-morning mist, and was surrounded by hills. Will was on one of the hills, staring at the isolated encampment. He’d walked forty-two miles north to reach the location.