The Wreckage

4

Chalcott is walking uphill on a treadmill with sweat dripping from his nose. He can see an aerobics class through the glass windows of the gym, a young blonde wearing a black leotard and loose vest. She pauses and drinks from a water bottle, her throat moving rhythmically. If only he were twenty years younger, he thinks. Ten would do.

Upping the speed, he begins running, his waistline shifting beneath his T-shirt, bouncing with each stride. He’s concerned about London. Years of planning and millions of dollars are in jeopardy. It was supposed to be a career-defining operation. Pull it off and Arthur Chalcott would be talked about in the same breath as legendary spymasters like Allen Dulles, Miles Copeland and even Markus Wolf. Not household names, but what spies ever are?

September 11 had caught them bare-assed, pants around their ankles. The Cold War had been fought and won, but they didn’t see the next one coming. First they were blamed for supplying bad information; then for not finding Osama bin Laden or predicting the insurgencies. Of course we fucking predicted them, he thinks. Stevie fucking Wonder could have predicted it, but Cheney and the hawks weren’t listening.

For almost a decade the Agency had been scrambling to catch up, while the government prosecuted two wars and spent billions on homeland security. Every success had been short-lived. It was like playing a game of Whac-a-Mole with the “mole” being a skinny, ragged man living in the caves of Tora Bora-the world’s most famous phantom, holed up in a mountain complex built with CIA money back when America was fighting the communists instead of the terrorists.

Chalcott’s phone is buzzing. Slowing the treadmill, he hooks a wireless earpiece over the pink shell of his ear. Recognizes Sobel’s number.

“The police have issued a warrant for Richard North. They think he might have left the country. They’re checking airport car parks and passenger manifests.”

“What about the girl?”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

“That’s so reassuring.”

Sobel doesn’t let the sarcasm distract him. “We think she’s with a psychologist-a friend of the ex-cop.”

“Where is Ruiz now?”

“He’s talking to the banker’s wife.”

“You’re following him?”

“Of course.”

Sobel has another piece of news. Hesitates in the telling.

“We may have an ID for the guy who killed Holly Knight’s boyfriend. MI6 identified a suspect coming through Heathrow a fortnight ago. He was travelling on a Moroccan passport. Facial recognition software has linked him to the suicide of a Lebanese politician in Athens six years ago. He’s also been tied to the death of the Egyptian industrialist Ashraf Marwan in London in 2007. Marwan was suspected of being an Israeli spy. Fell off his balcony. Fifth floor. Ground broke his fall.”

“This guy got a name?”

“Four or five of them. Calls himself the Courier.”

“Droll. What have we got on him?”

“A grainy CCTV picture from Athens six years ago.”

“Last known location?”

“Mombasa in April.”

“Don’t you love the fucking Africans? We give them an extra twenty-five billion in aid and they repay us by harboring every low-life scumbag terrorist they can fit through the door.”

Chalcott presses the cool down button. The incline on the treadmill begins to flatten out. His calves are burning and sweat has stretched the collar of his T-shirt. Toweling down, he keeps talking.

“Listen to me, Brendan, things want to start getting better real soon. I just heard from Jennings. Luca Terracini didn’t catch a flight to New York. He’s in Istanbul and he’s just used his credit card to buy two tickets to London.”

“Two tickets?”

“He’s with the woman from the UN.”

“Why is he coming here?”

“Yesterday he briefed a freelance journalist in Damascus, who has since been knocking on doors, asking questions about Yahya Maluk and Ibrahim.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Put Terracini on a plane to the US.”

“This is England. I can’t just extradite people.”

“I don’t give a fuck how you do it, Brendan. Plant drugs on him or kiddie porn or whatever other dirty little tricks they taught you in spy school. If this guy gets close to Ibrahim he’ll blow this operation.” Chalcott sits in the locker room, splaying his legs. “I got people here shitting themselves about this. And it costs a lot of money to get people to shit themselves these days.”

“I’ll take care of Terracini. He can be my problem.”

“Your other problem,” says Chalcott. “One solitary fucking girl-you had her on a plate and missed her. Now she’s hiding somewhere and running rings around you. I cannot fucking believe…”

“Can I just say… we’ve had some-”

“Don’t say bad luck, Brendan. You’re starting to whine like a Limey. Make this right. No loose ends.”