Major Mountjoy believed that Will was a life insurance salesman and had made it clear on their first encounter that Will’s profession was inhabited by the scum of the earth. Will had agreed and told him that he wished he’d had the discipline and courage to be a guardsman.
The West Square converted house was now empty of all, save Will.
He placed his hand over the knife’s handle and scrutinized the front door.
He heard a man whistling, a stair ledge creak. He frowned.
The whistling grew louder, as did the footsteps.
Will pulled out the knife and stood. He estimated it would take him one second to reach the door to plunge his knife into the man’s gut.
Though he wouldn’t get halfway down the hall if the man was a professional and had a gun.
The whistling stopped. Right outside his front door.
Will dared not move, had to remain silent.
The man noisily stamped, scuffed his boots on wooden floorboards, made a rustling noise, and began whistling again.
Then there was a bang that caused Will to leap sideways.
But the bang was caused by a cluster of letters being forced through the metal mail slot.
The man walked away from the entrance, still whistling as he exited the communal downstairs doorway.
A postman.
Will breathed shallowly and noisily through his nose as adrenaline pumped through his body. He pushed himself away from the wall and muttered, “Shit.”
Because his all-night vigil had been a waste of time. Providing the Russian team remained in their Berlin hotel, he reckoned he had time to spend one more night in his home, meaning he’d have to do the same routine for another twenty-four hours.
He sighed, decided he could risk making coffee, and grabbed the pile of mail. Taking it into the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle and began leafing through the letters.
Junk.
His hand became motionless.
One of the letters wasn’t junk. Handwritten on a cream envelope was his name and address. The postal stamp showed that it had been mailed from London.
Nobody sent Will handwritten letters.
Carefully he lifted the letter between forefinger and thumb and held it in midair. It felt light, though Will knew how to make letters of similar weight that could blind or poison when opened. He rotated it, and as he did so he caught the hint of a fragrant scent. Holding the envelope close to his nose, he frowned once he recognized the smell. His frown remained as the saw a water seal on the rear flap bearing the name of the stationer.
The Letter Press of Cirencester
A thought suddenly occurred to him, and it was coupled with panic. He dashed to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled aside deodorants, toothpaste, shaving gear, mouthwash, and a hairbrush. His bottle of Chanel Platinum Egoiste eau de toilette was missing. He ran into the living room, placed the letter on the dining table, and moved to his leather-covered writing desk. Inside its drawer he kept his gold fountain pen, given to him two years ago on the grounds of Versailles Palace by a Czech intelligence officer who’d placed a note inside it telling him how a terrorist unit was planning to kill the Chief of MI6. Alongside the pen would be a bottle of blue ink, a pad of high-quality writing paper, and matching envelopes.
He used the stationery to write to his sister, though she never replied.
The paper and envelopes had been purchased from the Letter Press of Cirencester.
He yanked open the drawers.
They were empty.
Turning, he stared at the letter on the table.
A letter that had been written with his pen on his stationery, and had been squirted with his eau de toilette in order to get him to do what he had just done. The message was clear.
You can’t trace me via this letter.
Knowing that someone had been into his home, anger coursed through him. He strode up to the table, grabbed the letter, briefly wondered if he should get it analyzed by a team of forensic experts at Vauxhall Cross, then said, “Fuck it,” and tore open the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper, nothing else. He eased it out, sat at the table, and held it with two shaking hands.
Dear Mr. Cochrane
I have learned from an unexpected quarter that you have made it your business to meddle in my affairs. You seek a man called Lenka Yevtushenko. You have no interest in him per se, but you are most interested in the sheet of paper that he has delivered to me-a paper comparable in size to the one you are now holding. The paper belongs to me, you have no rights over it, and I will severely punish anyone who tries to steal it from me.
I did consider speaking to you in person about this matter, in a place of my choosing, and under circumstances that perhaps would be rather more conducive to me than you. But I’m told that you are not a man to hunt. Rather than fail in an attempt to capture you and thereby drive you out of contact, I concluded that a letter to you would be a far more efficient and civilized course of action. I’m sure you agree.
I’m also sure that a man of your intellect will understand that not all of our dealings can be civilized. If I told you to back down or face the consequences, I’m convinced you’d eschew the former in favor of the latter. That inevitable decision has placed me into a rather brutish tactical stance. I don’t like that stance, but you put me there, and here I am.
You won’t back down because you are not afraid. But you might for something else.
I’m going to give you a name for you to refer to me by. It is not connected to me and no one else has this name. But it’s a label, eases our introduction to each other, and has been carefully chosen in order to remind you of the consequences of your actions.
Before I do so, know this:
If you don’t stop, I will find the name and location of someone you care about.
And I will savage that person.
Yours,
William
PART II
Eleven
Stefan stopped and looked back down the mountain. In German, he said, “Come on, you two. We’re nearly there.”
His ten-year-old twin sons were several yards below him and were struggling with the walk.
“We’re tired, Daddy.”
“Can we stop for a rest?”
“Not yet.” Stefan waited for them to catch up while looking at the view. No matter how many times he’d made this journey, the splendor of the Black Forest mountain range always captivated him. Today there was a clear blue sky and snow was only present on the very highest peaks. At the base of the mountain, his car was now a red dot, stationary next to a glistening, tranquil lake. “Another two hundred yards, then we can rest, eat, and play.”
Mathias reached him first and asked, “If we keep doing this, will we be as strong as you, Daddy?”
Stefan smiled. “Maybe stronger.”
Panting and red faced, Wendell drew closer and said, “I don’t know anymore if I want to be strong like Daddy.”
Stefan put his arms around his boys. “You’ve both done well today. Just you wait until I tell Mummy how far you walked. She’ll be so proud of you.”
“Are you proud of us?”
Stefan beamed. “I’m the proudest daddy in the world.” He lifted both boys so that they were snug against his waist and said, “I think you’ve walked far enough. Next time we’ll see if you can make it all the way to the top.”