for twelve months and the subsequent eight years of constant deployment had been worth it. For the first time in his life, he doubted not only himself but also those who had put their faith in him.
He thought about one of the Program’s tests. He’d had to do a HALO parachute insertion from 70,000 feet into Washington’s Olympic Mountains, carrying a communications and survival kit weighing eighty pounds. After landing, he’d trekked across harsh terrain for fifty miles in freezing conditions until he reached the isolated house where he’d been told to rendezvous with an instructor who would be role-playing an agent. Will had covertly watched the house for six hours and had seen no one. He hadn’t expected to. But as he carefully made his way toward the house he knew that the real test was about to begin. When he entered, men with guns grabbed him, put him in shackles, and covered his head with a hood. He was placed in a truck and driven two hours away before being dragged into a building, stripped naked, repeatedly punched, and forced into agonizing stress positions for hours at a time, throughout which white noise blared from speakers.
He estimated it was twelve hours before the noise stopped, his hood was removed, and he was kicked to the floor. An instructor crouched down next to him, patted him on the head, and said, “So far, so good. But that was just the warm-up. Now we’re going to put drugs into you to make you tell us the name of the man you were coming to meet. After one day, every thought and instinct in your body will be crying out to release the information. If you manage to hold out until day two, you’ll think you’ve lost your mind. By day three, you’ll want to kill yourself. But you’re going to need to last five days to stay in the Program.”
Will wondered why this particular memory had come into his mind. It wasn’t the worst test he’d had to endure.
Of course. It was what had come after that five-day ordeal that mattered.
When the drugs were out of his system, he’d been allowed to wash, shave, and change into clean clothes. But sleep was not yet permitted. Instead, he was guided into a classroom where an elderly gentleman was standing by a large blackboard. Will was told to sit at a desk and was left alone with the man.
He’d never seen this instructor before; he looked over retirement age. The man was dressed in a tweed suit and bow tie, was tall and thin, and was holding a piece of chalk. He drew two small circles on the board, one in the top left-hand corner, the other on the bottom right. Turning to face Will, he said in a well-spoken English accent, “I know from my experience in the field in the fifties that all of the physical stuff is nothing compared to what you can do with a brain.” He jabbed the chalk on the lower circle. “This is you.” Then he did the same on the higher circle. “And this is the man you want to capture.” He smiled. “Using intellect alone, we’re going to see which one can get to the other first.”
For the next four hours, the theoretical exercise was played out, with the instructor throwing obstacle after obstacle, new information, and unexpected events at Will, who was trying to formulate an ongoing plan to get to the other circle. Finally, the instructor put a cross through the highest circle and said, “Impressive. You got him.” He nodded. “I hope you’ve learnt more about yourself in the last few hours than you have in the last week.”
The Lufthansa flight came to a halt. People around Will started to stand up and extract their bags from the overhead lockers.
Will was motionless. He knew why the memory had come to him. Razin had matched him blow for blow. But he had not yet proven that he was Will’s intellectual equal.
But if he did, Will’s future in the Spartan Section was in doubt.
Chapter Nineteen
Will sat at a table and waited. The restaurant provided stunning views of Ljubljana and the snow-covered Slovenian mountains beyond the city. It was breakfast time, but the restaurant was nearly empty.
Krystof arrived and sat opposite him. The former Czech intelligence officer looked even worse than when Will had last seen him, and he stank of cigarettes and stale alcohol. He shook Will’s hand. “Hello, David.”
Will smiled. “You look well.”
“No, I don’t.” Krystof pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Let’s get a drink.”
“I’ve already ordered us some coffee.”
“Coffee? Okay.” He glanced out of the windows at the view. “Thanks for meeting me here. It saved me having to reroute my flights.” He looked back at Will. “I’ve got a name.”
“Excellent.”
Krystof smiled. “I’m not completely off the rails.”
“I never thought you were.”
“Liar.” Krystof tapped his cigarette over an ashtray. “Richard Baines. British. Operates out of the Cayman Islands.”
“He knows Otto von Schiller?”
“No doubt he’ll know of him. But they don’t do business together. Not directly, anyway.”
“But he’s acquainted with someone who does work with Schiller?”
“Correct.”
“Name?”
“A Frenchman named Philippe Delage. He lives in Paris but spends a lot of time in Berlin, because that’s where Schiller’s based.”
They were silent as a waiter brought a jug of coffee to the table and poured their drinks. After he left, Will said, “The Cayman Islands are a bit out of my way right now.”
Krystof lifted his cup and saucer; his hand shook as he did so. “You don’t need to go there. Baines is meeting Delage in Munich tomorrow. He’s flying into Germany today and is staying at the Mandarin Oriental.”
“Today?”
Krystof took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve already checked for you. There are spaces available on the 12:40 P.M. Adria flight. It’s direct, and you can be in Munich around the same time he arrives.”
Will laughed quietly. “You’ve thought of everything.” He withdrew an envelope containing the remaining? 5,000 owed to the Czech. “Very good work.”
Krystof secreted the cash. “Anything else you need me to do?”
“No, that’s all.”
Krystof inhaled deeply on his cigarette and again looked out of the window. “I thought you’d say that.”
Will snapped out of being David. Something was wrong. “What are you going to do now?”
In a near whisper, Krystof replied, “Something I’ve been planning to do since… since she’s been gone.”
Will reached across the table and grabbed Krystof’s forearm. “No. You have a future. You’re still useful to people like me. I’ll get you more work-anything to keep your mind occupied.”
Krystof smiled with a look of sad resignation. “You won’t be able to do that for long. Your star’s long since waned in the service. I’m surprised they even asked you to do this job.” He broke free from Will’s grip and looked at him. “You’ve always been very kind to me. But you need to understand that my mind’s made up. It’s what I want.”
Will was lost for words.
Krystof’s smile faded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, and given what I’ve just told you, perhaps you might agree to answer it.”
Will waited.
“Is David Becket your real name?”
Oh, dear God. Will’s stomach churned. He was facing a man who had known Becket for years, who liked the MI6 officer, and who wanted to know the truth before he killed himself due to the grief he felt about his daughter’s tragic death. Every ounce of humanity within him screamed out that Krystof had to know the truth.
Will stood; Krystof followed suit.
Will moved to him, hugged him, said, “Be at peace, my dear friend.” Then he stepped back and nodded. “You’ve always deserved to know the truth. David Becket’s my real name.”
