knife.
“He was in the hospital for a while, but he’s operational again.” Roger’s cell phone bleeped. He checked the screen, his expression one of irritation.
Will smiled. “Work comes first.”
“It thinks it does.” He stood, a wry smile now on his face. “Find a nice woman and marry her. It’ll be the solution to all your problems.”
A n hour later Will was in his hotel room. His bag was packed; he’d be checking out shortly. Turning on the television, he flicked through the channels until he found one devoted to classical music. An orchestra was playing Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6. He sat down, closed his eyes, and placed the tips of his fingers together.
As the third movement commenced, one of his rare good memories came to him. He was sixteen years old, and he was on his first proper date with a girl named Mary. He had known her for a couple of years-they played viola together in their school orchestra-but had only recently plucked up the courage to ask her out. They went to a National Symphony Orchestra performance in the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. The musicians were delivering an excellent performance of Symphony No. 6. Will was nervous and his date looked nervous, but halfway during the third movement, he looked at Mary, smiled, and took her hand.
The television concert paused before commencing the fourth movement. The memory vanished and was replaced by another. He was twenty years old, and he was sitting in a cafe on the banks of the Barada River in Syria’s capital, Damascus. He was dressed in jeans and an open-neck shirt and was sipping a glass of arak. The early-evening sun felt good on his tanned skin, and he smiled as he listened to Tchaikovsky’s fourth movement coming through the old speakers of the cafe. Several tables away from him sat a woman who looked to be around the same age as him. She was very pretty, had a glass of wine, and was reading a book. She glanced at him; Will smiled wider, and she responded. Three men walked in. Dressed in nice suits, they appeared middle-aged. Sitting down at a vacant table, they ordered drinks and began talking to each other with earnest expressions on their faces. Will looked at the woman again and wondered if she would be offended if he offered to buy her a drink. He looked at the three men and saw a waiter approaching them, carrying a tray with glasses. One of the men’s cell phones rang. The man stood, listened to the call, closed his phone, and spoke to the other men while ushering the waiter away. The men clearly had urgent business elsewhere.
That was not supposed to happen just yet.
They were supposed to be there until closing time, when the cafe would be empty of innocents.
Will put cash onto his table to pay for his drink, stood, pulled out a handgun, and shot the three men in their heads.
Will opened his eyes as the memory faded, but he could still remember the expression on the woman’s face turning from shock to disgust as she looked at him. He could still hear the screaming from the other people in the cafe; he could still remember standing in front of his GCP commanding officer and an anonymous French intelligence officer from the DGSE three days prior to that event. And he remembered his commander’s words to him: This is your first black operation. If you do well on this job, you’ll be given plenty more just like it.
Chapter Five
The business-class section of the Ukraine International Airlines Boeing 737 was at full capacity, with most passengers eating lunch. Will looked out of the window and saw that they were traveling over the snow-covered Transylvanian Alps of Romania. He’d not slept since departing Washington, D.C., fourteen hours before, taking flights to London, then Vienna, and now onward to Odessa. The plane would be landing in approximately one hour. Soon after that, he would be meeting Sentinel.
Not for the first time on the journey, Will wondered what Sentinel would be like. Alistair had forewarned him that Sentinel would be a complex and difficult man to deal with and rightly so. There were few men, if any, within the Western intelligence community who had proven, to such an extent, and over such a protracted period of time, that they were of such value.
He tried to sleep, but his mind was too active. More than anything, he felt an overwhelming sense of unease.
W ill walked quickly through the lobby of the Hotel Otrada toward the entrance. He’d landed in Ukraine six hours ago, taken a room in the luxury hotel, and was now heading to his meeting with Sentinel. Outside, it was twilight and icy, and a heavy fog lay motionless over the city of Odessa. He entered a taxi and soon was being driven north along a coastal city road straddled with old-fashioned lamps that cast a dim golden glow over the route. The Black Sea was beside him but barely visible in the fading light. After two miles, he was nearing the city’s old town and its adjacent port. The taxi slowed and the driver muttered in Russian, the common language of Ukraine, that they were close to his destination.
They moved northwest, with the port to their right. The place was better lit, but the fog seemed even heavier here, allowing only glimpses of the freight ships and ferries moored alongside large jetties. Pedestrians and cars milled around the area. The taxi stopped by an arterial road entrance to one of the jetties, and the driver held out a hand. Will thrust hryvnia notes at the expectant man and stepped out of the vehicle onto Prymors’ka street.
It was nearly night now and very cold, although the ground was free of snow. Will pulled up the collar of his overcoat and looked in the direction opposite to the port. Rising away from the road was the famous five-hundred- foot-long, broad stone Potemkin Stairs. On a normal day it would give tourists who climbed to its summit a view of the whole port. But tonight it was impossible to see much beyond a hundred feet.
Will frowned, looked left and right along the road, watched cars move cautiously through the fog, glanced at the port behind him, and looked back toward the Potemkin Stairs and the few tourists he could see on it. He’d been told that this was the meeting place, but now that he was here it felt wrong-too busy, too exposed, with too many routes into and out of the place.
An SUV passed him. He watched its taillights move away from his position and disappear into the thick fog. Glancing around again, he heard more engine noises; those sounded as though they belonged to other large vehicles, and they were moving fast. His heart missed a beat. Spinning to face the vehicles, Will saw two sets of headlights coming quickly toward him.
In an instant, he knew exactly what was happening.
He also knew that he had to allow it.
Two SUVs skidded to a halt by his position; eight men jumped out and ran to him. The SUV that had passed him seconds earlier reappeared, reversing fast to his position before stopping. The men grabbed and twisted him, ran him backward to the SUVs, threw him into one of the vehicles, and slammed boots and knees against his head. Everything happened in less than six seconds. Then the SUVs lurched forward. Will was pinned to the floor of the vehicle by large and very strong men.
It was impossible to see where they were going. Will looked at the two men who held him firm. Their faces were in darkness; they said nothing. They seemed quite professional, though Will wouldn’t know how good they were until he decided to do something.
The three-vehicle convoy drove for an hour before stopping. A cell phone rang. One of the five men in Will’s vehicle pulled out his phone, listened to it, said nothing, then nodded at the two men holding Will. Doors were opened. Will was dragged out of the SUV and thrown onto the ground. Boots pressed his head against the frozen soil. The three SUVs were together, and the only light around them came from the vehicles. It showed that they were adjacent to a tree-lined road. Eleven men were on foot, all of them dressed in dark winter attire. One of them walked up to Will, nodded at the man pinning him down, took three paces away from them, and pointed a gun at Will’s head.
Hands gripped Will’s chin and forced his body into a kneeling position. All but the man with the gun moved to form a large circle around him. Will and the man holding the weapon were in the center of that circle.
Will raised his head and looked at the man holding the gun. “Fuck you.”
The man smiled, took three paces forward, and kicked him in the chest, forcing him onto his back. Will’s muscles instantly tensed. He thought about trying to escape, but he knew the thought was pointless.
The man punched the pistol into Will’s mouth and smiled wider; then his face took on a cold look. He pulled
