Alistair leaned forward and pointed at the papers in Patrick’s hand while keeping his gaze fixed on Will. “We’ve got multiple reports from covert intelligence sources and overt diplomatic channels. Political and economic tensions between America and Russia are the highest they’ve been since the Cold War.”
“I thought we were getting along quite nicely.”
“So did the Russian and American premiers, until”-Patrick tossed the papers to one side-“we recently caught some Russian sleeper agents in America and interrogated them. Not to be outdone, the Russians rounded up a handful of our spies whom they’d had under surveillance and put the thumbscrews on them. As a result, some uncomfortable home truths, concerns, and agendas emerged.”
Alistair checked the knot on his Royal Navy tie and leaned back, his eyes still locked on Will. “Collective lies were laid bare.”
Patrick nodded. “Our spies confessed to the Russians that we’re not as keen as we made ourselves out to be for Russia to have a dominant economic role in the WTO, that we’d no intention of removing our tactical nuclear weapons in Europe, that we’d never consider a joint missile defense system with the Russians, and that we’re spying on them as much as we were in the fifties and sixties.”
Alistair smiled, though his look was cold. “And the Russian men and women we spoke to in FBI cells told us that Russia is hell-bent on rebuilding itself into a superpower with a capitalist platform. It doesn’t care whose toes it treads on to achieve that.”
Patrick lifted a glass of water close to his mouth and held it there. “Given time, the diplomats and politicians might be able to smooth over the… misunderstandings to get relations back on track. But we’ve been reliably informed that right now nothing must happen to make the situation worse. The last thing we need is a flash point.”
Glancing around the room, Will thought about Svelte’s dying words. Outside it was daytime, but in here it could have been any time at all. “Does the name Khmelnytsky mean anything to you?”
Patrick answered, “Yes.”
Will looked at the two men. Though Alistair had always been his controller, Will had worked with both men for the first time during his last operation to capture an Iranian general, code name Megiddo. During that time he’d learned that Alistair and Patrick had a deep history of collaboration that had started when they were both young officers: when they had worked with Will’s father, a CIA operative, and witnessed him being captured by Iranian revolutionaries. Their revenge-driven work against those revolutionaries had ensured that both had quickly risen in power to reach their now-unusual positions. The men before him had direct lines to the U.S. and British premiers, in practice did not answer to the heads of the CIA and MI6, and had personally killed many men. Though he rarely showed it, Will liked them, even though they had both made it clear that they viewed him as their most unpredictable and uncontrollable intelligence officer.
Will smiled. “Feel free to stop giving me monosyllabic answers to my questions.”
“Watch your tone.” Alistair glanced at Patrick, who nodded at him, then looked sharply at Will. “When I joined MI6, one of the recruits in the training program was different from the rest of us. He was quiet, kept away from the other students. We found out that he was a former SAS officer, but that’s all we knew about him because two weeks into the course we were told that he was not deemed suitable material for the service and had been instructed to leave the program.”
Alistair took a sip of his tea. Patrick watched Will.
Alistair continued, “Much later, I found out what had really happened. He hadn’t failed the course at all. Instead, he’d been quickly identified by one of the instructors as highly unusual, as someone who could be deployed to help combat the Soviet Union. He was given secret MI6 training, and his identity was kept hidden from all within the service, save the chief and a tiny handful of other senior officers. After excelling in the training program, he was granted intelligence officer status while at the same time being told that officially he didn’t exist.” Alistair was very still. “The chief immediately sent him overseas in deep cover and his remit was to cause damage to the KGB: run agents against them, turn their officers into double agents, disrupt operations against us, and assassinate any Soviet officer who stood in his way. He operated in eastern Berlin, Poland, and the Soviet Union itself; always changing identity, always moving location, always aware that if he was caught he would be tortured and executed. He did this for years and was so successful that the KGB had an entire department dedicated to finding the man they suspected was causing untold damage to their intelligence activities.
“But he was always several steps ahead of them, always maintaining his security, his various covers, trusting no one and making no mistakes. However”-Alistair sighed-“a mistake was made by others. At the end of the Cold War there was a brief moment of euphoria from within the London-based ranks of MI6. That moment was extremely dangerous; it caused secrets to be shared between Great Britain and the reemerging Russia and its new neighboring states, caused many MI6 Soviet agents to wander back to their homeland, their work against the USSR done but their heads now stuffed with dangerous secrets. Of course, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki was no different from the KGB and contained many of the same personnel who saw little difference between the Soviet Union and Russia. And many of those SVR men still wanted to capture our officer.”
Will said, “They got to one of our recently retired Russian agents, made him tell them where they could find our man.”
Alistair nodded. “We still don’t know who betrayed him. But the location of one of our officer’s many safe houses in Moscow was supplied and was put under observation by the SVR for weeks, until he finally showed up there and was captured after a gunfight. The FSB dragged him to the Lubyanka prison. They kept him in a tiny, dirty cell and tortured him for six years, but he told them nothing, not even his name. No doubt he’d have died there had Russia and the U.K. not decided that there would be an amnesty of sorts and certain key political prisoners would be exchanged. Our officer was one of those prisoners.”
“When he got off the airplane at our military airport in RAF Brize Norton, we expected him to be a broken man.” Alistair smiled. “Instead, he stepped onto the tarmac, looked at the chief of MI6, told him that he wanted a hot meal, a glass of single-malt whiskey, a newspaper to catch up on world events, and a new suit, cash, and identity so that he could get on the next available flight back to Eastern Europe to continue his work. We had to force him to stay in the U.K. for a few days to undergo treatment for the torture inflicted on his body, but after that was done we gave him what he wanted. We sent him back to the Former Soviet Union.” He tapped a finger on the table. “That was fifteen years ago. He’s been in deep cover, acting as a businessman, in Central and Eastern Europe ever since, running numerous agents, and disrupting the SVR, GRU, and FSB. He’s the West’s most valuable intelligence resource for all intelligence matters Russia-related.”
“He was Svelte’s case officer?”
“Yes, Svelte was one of his agents, though the two rarely met. For security reasons, Svelte’s DLB was always cleared by one of the case officer’s Russian assets, who’d send the message direct to London. We’d decode it, recode it, and send it in a burst transmission to the officer. But after receiving Svelte’s last message, we knew the officer was not contactable for two weeks while meeting one of his other agents. We couldn’t afford to sit on it so sent you into the base.” Alistair paused. “I’ve told you about this highly classified officer for two reasons. First, in the history of MI6 only two men have ever been kept so secret from others in our service. One of them is the man I’ve described; the other is you.”
“He did the Program?”
Alistair gave a brief nod.
The Program to which Will referred was the Spartan Program, a twelve-month course of unrelenting extreme physical and mental tests. Only one MI6 applicant at a time was allowed to be enrolled in the course. Will had always thought that he was the first and last man to successfully go through the Spartan Program and carry its code name.
Will nodded slowly as understanding dawned on him. “He is Sentinel.”
“Yes.” Alistair took a sip of his tea. “Which leads me onto the second reason I’m telling you all this. Sentinel gets his intelligence from ten extremely valuable agents, individuals who have access to top secret Russian military and intelligence material, individuals who are being murdered one by one.” Alistair frowned. “We had no idea who was doing this.” His expression changed. “But you’ve given us the name.”
“Khmelnytsky.” Will pictured Svelte’s dying body and felt a further wave of regret and failure rush over him. “Does Sentinel know him?”
“He does, though he doesn’t yet know he’s the murderer. Svelte was the fourth agent to have been assassinated so far.” Alistair reached for his cup. “Taras Khmelnytsky is a colonel and the head of Spetsnaz
