Tibor stated, “Our priorities now are our other operations: North Korea, getting the bomb into the delegation’s building in Dar es Salaam, turning the Asian cells against each other, feeding more disinformation to the Saudis, and further positioning France against Germany.”
Damien frowned. “It would’ve been good to know who got Yevtushenko out of Russia and why.”
Tibor disagreed. “It will be for some low-level, chickenshit reason. Fuck Yevtushenko, fuck Rubner, fuck Cochrane. We’ve got big boys’ stuff to get on with.”
Forty-Two
Kronos cupped his hand under the center of the rifle, lifted the weapon a few inches, and nodded approvingly. “Perfect balance.”
Leaning against a bench, a bespectacled gunsmith used a cloth to rub oil from his hands. Around him, the basement workshop contained more benches on all sides containing anvils, tools, manuals, electronic scales, spot lamps, magnifying glasses, a blowtorch, and gun parts. The middle-aged Dutchman pointed at the gun. “I modified parts from a German DSR-50 sniper rifle. It was a devil of a job. The customized magazine added an extra three pounds to the rear end.”
Kronos removed the clip and looked at the large bullets. “How many?”
“Twenty per clip, as you requested.”
Kronos slammed the magazine back into the weapon and raised it to eye level. “You’re sure it won’t need zeroing on site?”
“Absolutely. Once you’ve zeroed it at a range, the weapon can be transported and will be accurate when you need it to be. The case will help protect it, but even so you’d need to give the gun a fairly hard knock to put it out of alignment with the scope. I’ve spent hours ensuring the assembled parts are perfectly married.”
“Excellent. Faults?”
The gunsmith frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What faults does it have?”
“I can assure you that there are none.”
Kronos smiled. “Every make of weapon has its own idiosyncrasies. Including”-he glanced at the man-“those made by specialists.”
The Dutchman sighed. “I’ve tried to minimize recoil as much as I could, but you’ll need a firm grip, because it still kicks like a mule. Plus, I can’t suppress the sound any further without reducing projectile velocity. You’ll be heard from over fifty yards away. Other than that”-he ran a finger along the full length of the barrel-“this is the best rifle I’ve ever made.”
“Good. Neither fault presents me with a problem.” Kronos rested the weapon on a table and expertly stripped it down, placing the parts into foam inlets within a rectangular case. He withdrew an envelope containing fifty thousand euros and thrust it toward the gunsmith.
The man hesitated. “I’ll need another ten thousand. It took me much longer than I thought to complete the work.”
Kronos slowly shook his head. “There was no deal to pay you by the hour.”
“Nevertheless, I think I deserve. .”
Kronos slammed the case shut and turned to face the gunsmith, towering over the man. “Consider this: I know your name, your place of work, your home address, your favorite restaurant, the pub where you like to have an occasional glass of Grolsch, your children’s school, and a hundred other facts about you and your family. A further ten thousand euros will severely antagonize me. Do you think the extra hours you worked are worth that situation?”
The Dutchman’s face paled and his eyes widened. “I. .” He grabbed the envelope. “Please. . please, forget what I said.”
Kronos smiled, slid the case inside a canvas bag, and held out his hand. “Good. And now you can forget what I said.”
With a sweaty palm, the gunsmith shook his hand. “Thank you.”
“And thank you for making such an excellent weapon.” Kronos’s expression turned cold and he gripped the gunsmith’s hand very tightly, causing him to wince. “A man in your delicate line of work needs his fingers. Never give me cause to come back here”-he nodded toward the blowtorch and anvils-“to remove them.”
Forty-Three
Will called Patrick and updated him on recent developments. “The court’s lawyers are adamant that their security around the witness is watertight. They’re keeping him in a military installation in the south of the Netherlands. In two days’ time, he’s going to be flown north to another secure facility in The Hague. At all times, he’s going to have a ring of steel around him.”
“You threatened the court’s president and chief prosecutor?”
“I had to. Time’s running out.”
“It’ll run out for you if you keep behaving this way.”
Will ignored the comment. “Once I persuaded them that their witness is under severe threat, they began to cooperate with me to some extent. But they won’t give me access to the witness unless they have written authorization from your president and my prime minister, confirming my credentials and that I am acting with their backing.”
“Shit. That’s a big ask, since I’m not entirely sure you have their backing.”
“Can you arrange the authorization?”
The CIA officer was silent for a few seconds before answering, “I can try.”
“Also, they’ve asked the Russian premier to gain identical authorities for SVR officer Mikhail Salkov.” He told him about the court president’s terms.
When he spoke, Patrick’s tone was deliberate and incredulous. “Cooperating with the Russians? This could turn into a cluster fuck.”
“I know!” Will felt frustration. “Right now, the last thing I need is to work alongside an SVR spycatcher.”
“Sounds like you’ve got no choice. In any case, from what you’ve said, there’s no way the assassin can get to the target.”
Will agreed. The Dutch security teams that protected witnesses appearing at The Hague were second to none. “I can’t work it out. No matter how good the assassin is, by all accounts he’ll fail. But I need to make my own security assessment by analyzing the setup around the witness.”
Patrick sighed. “Okay.” He paused. “How’s your loved one?”
Mention of Sarah made Will feel even more anxious. “She’s had to move locations. There was a severe threat at the previous site. I’m getting regular updates.”
“Are you holding up?”
Will wondered how the cohead would react if he told him the truth-that he was mentally and physically exhausted, was living in constant fear that he’d receive a call from Betty saying that they’d failed, didn’t know if it was the right decision to ally with the Russian spycatcher, had no idea how he was going to look Alina in the eye and tell her that he’d broken his promise to bring Lenka home, and so far had failed to get closer to Schreiber and Kronos.
“I’m fine.”
Forty-Four
Kronos hauled the long canvas bag onto his shoulder, slammed the car trunk shut, and strode over the grass-covered undulating ground that ran along the Dutch coastline. The land around him was deserted, and light was fading, though easily visible ahead of him was the North Sea-dark and agitated, waves pounding against the sandy shore.
Wind and rain buffeted Kronos as he moved along the coast, walking for thirty minutes until he reached an area where the ground was flatter. He placed the canvas bag on the ground, unzipped it, and removed a hammer, a nail, and a wooden board, over which was stapled a paper target. Walking to one end of the flatland, he hammered the target onto a tree, retreated twenty-five paces, and used the heel of his boot to scuff a line in the ground. Returning to the bag, he withdrew a shopping bag containing food scraps and the rectangular case containing the components of the hand-built rifle. He assembled the weapon, attached the sound suppressor, and inserted a magazine containing twenty NATO rounds. Moving to the place where he’d scuffed the ground, he lowered the gun’s bipod, lay down, and glanced around to ensure there were no passersby. Taking aim at the center of the target, he fired three bullets. All struck a half-inch-square area of the target, a fraction to the right of the bull’s-eye. He made adjustments to the scope and fired three more times. Each bullet hit the center of the target.