Chapter Twenty
The taxi took Will away from Munich International Airport and toward the city. Snow carpeted the roads and surrounding countryside, though for now no more was falling.
Will was on his cell phone, talking to Alistair. “Only three?”
“That’s all I could get for you at this short notice. They’re due to arrive in Russia in three days’ time and will wait for you there.”
“Equipment?”
“I’ve told them that handguns won’t be enough. Everything’s going through in diplomatic bags. The team leader has your John Lawrence number and will make contact when he’s in situ.”
“Do I know him?”
“I believe you had a drink with him in Washington before leaving.”
Roger Koenig.
“Excellent. And what have you got on my man?”
Will listened for ten minutes as Alistair briefed him on everything MI6 knew about Richard Baines. It wasn’t a lot, but there was enough on the British arms dealer to give Will the leverage he needed.
“Room number?”
“Cheltenham’s tracked his credit card number, and it doesn’t show which room he’s in.”
Cheltenham-GCHQ.
“But I’ve managed to speak to a contact at BfV.”
The German Security Service.
“No mention made of you. They checked with the hotel and got the room. He’s in the Mandarin suite.”
“All right, but you should have spoken to me first before alerting the locals.”
“I’m so sorry. Sometimes I forget that I’m only your boss.”
The sarcastic comment made Will smile.
“How’s your associate holding up?”
Will thought about Sentinel. “Events are taking their toll on him. But he’s a tough bastard.”
“Is his judgment sound?”
Will responded, “Even though I disagree with what he wants to do, I can’t fault the logic of his plan.”
“You have the authority to overrule him.”
“I know, but this is happening to his people. If I were in his position, I’d probably do the same thing he’s doing.”
W ill stood outside the Mandarin suite, straightened his tie, pressed the hotel room’s buzzer, and said in a loud German-accented voice, “Hotel Management.”
He heard a man call out something. He waited patiently.
Thirty seconds later, a man opened the door. He was dressed in a bathrobe, had wet hair, and smelled of soap.
“Mr. Baines?”
The man replied in a south London accent. “Of course.”
Will stepped forward, punched his hand under Baines’s jaw, lifted him off the ground, carried him back into the room, and threw him onto the floor.
“What the fuck-?”
Will stamped a foot on Baines’s flabby belly, causing the arms dealer to retch. He knelt down beside his writhing body and grabbed his jaw again, holding it firm so that they were looking directly at each other.
“Listen very carefully to me.” Will leaned closer. “I work for British Intelligence. We know about your deals in Africa, your shipment that’s sailing through the Persian Gulf, and the missiles you’re about to purchase from the Chinese. You’ve got a lot of blood on your hands, and we’ve got enough evidence to put you in prison for the rest of your life. But I’m not here for that. Tomorrow you’re meeting Philippe Delage. I’m going to be at that meeting with you, and you’re going to say that I’m someone you trust and have done business with for years.”
Baines tried to break free from Will’s grip. “You’ve got to be crazy.”
Will held him firm. “You are going to do this for me. And afterward, you’re never going to mention this little chat. Fail at either, and I promise that I’ll come back for you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
T he three men were sitting around a large oak table in the Mandarin Oriental’s business-suite boardroom. Dressed in a Camps de Luca suit, a silk shirt, and a tie that he’d bound into a schoolboy knot, Philippe Delage looked at home in the five-star surroundings. He was probably around fifty years old, but wealth, a charmed life, an attractive wife half his age, a personal trainer, or all of those things had made him look ten years younger. By contrast, Richard Baines looked like a 1980s barrow boy banker-pin-striped suit, suspenders over a striped shirt, slicked-back hair, and overapplied eau de cologne. The third man, Will Cochrane posing as Thomas Eden, was dressed as if he were about to have a glass of port in the Household Cavalry’s officers’ mess-dark Huntsman bespoke Savile Row sports jacket, pink shirt with cutaway collar, regimental tie, cords, and brogues.
Delage studied Eden’s business card and said in a barely accented voice, “I’ve never heard of Thomas Eden before.” He looked at Baines. “Why is that?”
Baines shrugged. “Fucked if I know, pal.”
Delage shook his head. “You say you’ve done business together for years. Strange, given that you and I have known each other for the same length of time and you’ve never mentioned him before.”
Baines pointed a finger at the Frenchman. “Don’t be a shit, Philippe. I bet you’ve got a dozen contacts tucked away who I don’t know about.”
Delage smiled. “Maybe that’s true. But why are you revealing Thomas Eden to me now?”
Baines was about to speak, but Will raised a hand to silence him. “Because I’m paying him an introductory fee that equates to ten percent of anything I get out of the relationship.”
“Introductory fee to meet me?”
Will laughed. “No. Someone you know.”
Delage seemed unflustered. “So what’s in it for me?”
“Not my problem. I suggest you arrange terms with the man I want to meet.”
“And who is that?”
Will smiled. “Otto von Schiller.”
Delage did not smile as he began rapidly turning over Eden’s business card in his hands. “Who gave you that name?”
“I have my contacts.”
Delage held the card still. “What’s your interest in him?”
Will looked serious. “Soon I’m going to have my hands on some very interesting blueprints. I’m looking for a buyer, and I think von Schiller might be that person.”
“Blueprints of what?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
The Frenchman looked sharply at Baines. “This has been a waste of my time.”
Will interjected. “Give him my business card. That’s all you need to do. The blueprints I’m talking about-I reckon they’ve got a market value of around fifty million dollars. If I were you, I’d start thinking about what percentage you want from the deal for”-he nodded toward the business card-“merely handing over a tiny bit of cardboard.”
T hat evening, Will’s Thomas Eden cell phone rang.
Philippe Delage.
He listened to the Frenchman’s precise instructions. Otto von Schiller would meet him tomorrow.
But it was crucial that he come alone.
