On the border with Austria, the isolated mountaintop property was Schreiber’s favorite retreat. Because it was extremely difficult to access and was at all times guarded by at least twenty armed men, it was also his most secure.
The old man sat in his usual armchair by the fire, poured a glass of Camus Cognac Cuvee, took a sip of the liquor, and rested his glass on the coffee table, next to a plate of Abendessen bread and a file. The room had an air of serenity, Heinrich Schutz’s Zwolf geistliche Gesange played softly in the background.
He tore off a chunk of bread, raised it to his mouth, and paused midair. He imagined over one hundred million men, women, and children eating their last mouthful of food before spewing blood-drenched vomit and dying.
That’s what would happen if Slingshot was enacted.
Schreiber chuckled and tossed the bread into his mouth.
He leaned forward and opened the file. Six sheets of paper were inside. He placed them next to each other and stared at the men’s profiles and their attached photos.
General Leon Michurin, Russian, deceased. Seven years ago, his alcohol-abused body took its final gulp of vodka.
General Alexander Tatlin, Russian, deceased. The chain-smoker had died last year in agony from lung cancer.
Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev, Russian. The former senior SVR officer had moved to southern France ten years ago to grow wine, while keeping his mouth firmly shut about his previous life in espionage.
General Joe Ballinger, American. The retired four-star general, who’d previously spent all of his adult life on a war footing, now spent most of his days analyzing his vast investment portfolio from his New York mansion.
CIA officer Thomas Scott, American. A man who’d wanted to be head of the CIA, got passed over for promotion, and resigned from the Agency in disgust. Since then, the Yale-educated former operative divided his time between teaching at Harvard, sitting as a trustee on the boards of several charities, and participating in political think tanks.
Admiral Jack Dugan, American. After retirement from the military, Dugan had used his military connections to carve out a lucrative career in the arms industry. His wealth had not only enabled him to buy a three-million-dollar home in Potomac, Maryland, it had also funded his successful U.S. senatorial campaign.
The six men who’d attended the Berlin meeting in 1995.
He put a finger on the photo of one of the four surviving members.
The treacherous bastard who intended to give evidence about Slingshot to The Hague.
He recalled Dugan’s comment to him.
We’re the kind of men who like to have impenetrable security wherever we go.
Lifting Dugan’s profile, he placed his rimless reading glasses on and muttered, “Your security has caused me a lot of trouble.”
Thirty-Four
At midmorning, Will, Roger, and his men watched the Jeep stop at the side of the deserted country lane on the outskirts of Berlin. The land around them was featureless, flat, and made more dreary by a persistent rain that was turning to hail. Suzy got out of the car, pulled up her jacket’s hood, and approached their stationary vehicles. Despite the weather, all of the men were standing on the side of the road.
Will asked quietly, “What have you got for me?”
She told him about Interpol’s request for any information on Kurt Schreiber, the location of an unknown high-value witness in the Netherlands, and the impending hearing in The Hague.
Will lowered his head, deep in thought. He felt weary, had only managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep each day since the paper escaped his clutches in Gdansk. “You think Schreiber’s the witness?”
“Impossible to know.”
“Still nothing on the word Kronos?”
“Nothing.”
Will thought about Sarah. Every six hours he received SMSs from Betty to update him on her safety. “We need to go after Rubner’s wife and daughter. Rubner himself will most likely be invisible. But children need schools; wives like to socialize. Find them, we’ll find Rubner. And when we get him, we’ll make him talk.”
Laith spoke angrily. “We’re not in the business of harming women and kids.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Will ignored the hailstones hitting his face. “There’ll be no harm; we’ll just put the fear of God into them. We have no other choice.”
Mark rubbed his stubbly face. “I’m not comfortable with this.”
Nor was Will, though he couldn’t show that doubt to his team. “Could you sell out your country’s agents and do that simply for money?”
The former SBS commando shook his head. “Fuck, no.”
“I doubt any of us could.” Will nodded. “Rubner will stick close to Yevtushenko and the paper. That means his family’s in Europe, possibly Germany itself.” He walked away and stood with his back to the others in the center of the deserted road. He stayed like this for one minute as the others watched him, then turned and looked at Suzy. “Scour Europe, find Rubner’s family.” He turned to Roger. “I need you to do something for me today. After it’s done, rejoin your team and use your men as a hunter-killer unit. Once Rubner’s family has been located, get him, make him talk.”
“You’re not joining us?”
Will shook his head. “Tonight I’m going to visit The Hague.”
Mikhail stayed motionless, prone on the ground. He watched the officer and his men move back toward their vehicles. The paramilitary team and American analyst drove away from him; the MI6 operative came right toward his hidden location.
Who should he follow?
He made a decision.
This time he would not let the MI6 officer out of his sight.
Thirty-Five
Alina removed Maria from the new baby carriage Will had bought her, put the child into a high chair supplied by the shabby Minsk cafe, and placed her daughter’s food on the table between them. The place was a third full. Outside it was snowing, and the road adjacent to the eatery was a mix of white snow and muddy slush.
A waitress came to her table and snootily asked, “Are you going to buy anything?” She pointed at a sign. In Belarusian, it read ONLY FOOD PURCHASED IN THESE PREMISES MAY BE CONSUMED HERE.
Alina felt angry, unzipped her purse, and saw that it contained barely enough rubles to buy her a mug of coffee. She ordered a drink, and added, “I doubt this shit hole sells baby food, and if it did I wouldn’t poison my child with it.”
The waitress stormed off.
Alina unscrewed a jar of homemade turnip and carrot puree, sat down, and began spooning the meal into Maria’s mouth. “Daddy’s going to come home soon.”
Maria swallowed some of the food as bits of it dribbled over her chin. She grinned and made a chortling sound.
“We have to believe that, don’t we?” She scrapped the mess off Maria’s face, trying to keep her tone light and happy, even though she felt exhausted with worry and over the last few weeks had burst out crying at the most random of moments. “Maybe Daddy could take us out for a picnic. Would you like that?”
The waitress slammed a mug of black coffee on the table and stood expectantly by Alina’s side. Alina sighed, withdrew all her money, and placed it next to the mug.
After the waitress was gone, Alina put her cold hands around the mug, letting the warmth soothe her fingers. “The trouble is, Daddy did something very silly and we won’t be able to do the picnic until he says sorry to a lot of people.”