Will smiled. “I’ve brought us to a situation of going stir crazy in a Dutch high-security military base.”
Roger burst out laughing. “Yeah, you’ve done just that.” His laugh receded. “We’re keeping well away from Mikhail.”
“Good. Don’t speak to him without me being present.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“What do you think?”
“Yeah, dumb question.”
“I’m the one who feels dumb right now.” Will stood. “Come on. Let’s get the team together. Texas Hold’em poker. Fifteen dollars big blind. If nothing else, it means one of us will fly out of this base tomorrow with something to show for being here.”
Fifty-One
Joanna surveyed Will’s London home with pride and satisfaction. All of the boxes had been unpacked and removed; the West Square apartment was perfect. She looked at the dining room table and tried to picture Will sitting there, eating a meal with a woman, laughing with her. To her surprise, the image came naturally and the event seemed possible. She imagined them retiring to the other end of the living room, Will placing one of his Segovia records on the Garrard turntable, lighting a fire, pouring her a calvados, and sitting next to her on the Edwardian sofa. What would they talk about? Perhaps music, if they had that in common. Or maybe Will would try to impress her with his past exploits in MI6 and the Legion. No, he would never share those memories with someone he liked. He could capture her interest with his knowledge of London and its secrets, knowledge gained from his many walks through the capital’s streets and alleys, though he’d need to omit telling her all the dark secrets. And he could enthrall her by describing the beauty that he’d seen during his overseas travels: Indian mists revealing glimpses of palaces and placid lakes in Rajasthan; shooting stars racing through a blue diamond-encrusted night sky above southern Chile’s archipelago; fishermen and their trained cormorants drifting in tiny boats in the azure lakes of the Jiuzhaigou Valley; and candles being lit across Myanmar’s plain of a thousand pagodas. He’d taken time to see these and a multitude of other stunning places, even though he’d been there to kill men.
Joanna rubbed her arthritic hips as she walked into the kitchen. Robert was in there, frying bacon. “Darling, the post will be here in a minute.”
Her husband was wearing a chef’s apron that Joanna had bought for Will’s return home. On it were the words WILLY THE KITCHEN WIZARD. “Right you are, old girl. You want ketchup in your sandwich?”
“No. And I don’t want you putting any in yours, either.”
Robert huffed. “Bloody doctor’s orders are going to see me die early of boredom.”
They heard whistling in the stairwell outside the front door. The postman. Robert turned off the pan, grabbed his pump-action shotgun, and nodded at Joanna.
Two minutes later, Joanna’s hand was shaking as she held the letter and reread it to make sure that her eyes hadn’t deceived her.
Dear Joanna and Robert,
Have you enjoyed your stay at Will Cochrane’s house? I’m sure he’ll be very grateful that you’ve spent so much time unpacking his items and making his home look tasteful. I particularly like how you’ve combined the Louis XV lacquer and ormolu commode with the set of Venetian trespoli and the pair of eighteenth-century Guangzhou imperial dress swords. Like me, Mr. Cochrane has a good eye for antiquities, though his tastes are too eclectic. I commend you for achieving the near-impossible task of arranging his collection within one home.
I’m writing to let you know that you don’t need to remain in his house any longer. This will be the last letter I send. I’d be grateful if you could let him know that Mrs. Rubner has contacted me in what can only be described as a state of hysteria. To my disgust, I learned that British and American men kidnapped her and her daughter in order to try to get to me. I had wondered if Mr. Cochrane had given up chasing me; it appears that has not been the case. There is no excuse for what he did to Mrs. Rubner and her daughter, though I’m grateful he released them unharmed. But I cannot forgive him for killing Mrs. Rubner’s husband, a man who was also a trusted and valuable employee of mine. That action was deplorable.
I’ve been left with no choice other than to address that.
Every morning, you’ve been extremely meticulous with the way you’ve collected mail delivered to Mr. Cochrane’s house. I estimate you’ll be reading these words at 0704 hours.
Exactly four minutes after Will Cochrane’s loved one was shot in the head.
Yours sincerely,
William
Fifty-Two
Alfie snapped his cell phone shut and ran as fast as he could along the Isle of Wight’s Compton Bay beach. While Betty was preparing sausages and eggs and waiting for Sarah and James to come downstairs, the retiree had been taking an early-morning walk along the empty beach in order to rejoin the coastal road and then watch the holiday home and its surroundings from a distance. But Joanna had called him before he got to that location. It still left the sixty-five-year-old ex-SAS sergeant half a mile of coastline to reach the house.
The same words raced through his mind as he tried to force his aging legs to move faster and his lungs to give him more oxygen.
Bloody hell, no! Bloody hell, no!
He wheezed, his stiff limbs and back throbbed, and his temples ached from the exertion and the icy winter air. Why did he have to be this old, this far away from the house? He could see it now, tiny, at least eight hundred paces away. His heart was pounding. Maybe it would give out on him and he’d die here, just as his old man had done. A pointless death.
Each footfall made his boots sink inches into the wet sand. Bleedin’ sand-loved it as a kid; hated it in the army. All those runs along it carrying a rifle and webbing. But at least he’d been in his twenties then. What was he thinking about sand for? Because he didn’t want to think about anything else, that’s why.
Taste of blood in his mouth. That was normal. Get that regardless of age. Spat out more blood in his time than he could remember. Got plenty more of it inside. Just need to remember that yer body can do five times more than yer mind wants it to do. That’s what got him through the freezing sleet and wind in the final stage of SAS selection: a hellish mountain trek with sixty pounds of gear on his back, while carrying a rifle with no sling. Shit, that was tough, and had come on the back of four weeks of endless marches and runs, most of ’em on your own, just a basic compass for navigation, back breaking from the weight, up and down mountains, shivering all the time, every inch of yer feet pissing gunk from blisters. Long time ago. Since then, he’d gotten old. Running along this small bit of beach was every bit as tough as final selection.
As his legs slowed, he felt his handgun rub against his hip. Probably had taken the skin off by now. Didn’t matter, skin would grow back. Soon he’d take the gun out. Not yet. Had to be close. Must remember the house entry drills. Watch the angles; speed crucial; chest shots first. Christ! Speed? What a joke.
He reached the base of a set of wooden steps leading up the cliff to the road. His breathing was shallow, legs like lead, head gettin’ dizzy. Control that. Get yer mind in shape. Might have shooting to do.
Who you kidding? You’re not in the Regiment’s Special Projects Team now. Just a knackered ol’ codger. Yeah, but you can still shoot, remember? The years ain’t touched that. Bless ’em.
Using one hand on a rail to aid him, he hauled his body up the steps, used the back of his other arm to wipe sweat from his brow. Can’t have that shit in your eyes. He reached the top. House one seven three yards away. Cross the road, follow edge of the open heathland, keep low, gun out when within pistol kill range. Fuck what the passengers of any passing cars thought. Nothing on the road, though-two miles visibility along it to the southeast, one mile northwest.