DIE TWICE
ALSO BY ANDREW GRANT
Even
DIE
TWICE
ANDREW GRANT
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
DIE TWICE. Copyright © 2010 by Andrew Grant. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grant, Andrew, 1968–
Die twice / Andrew Grant.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-54027-2
1. Intelligence officers—Fiction. 2. International relations—Fiction.
3. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6107.R366D54 2010
823’.92—dc22
2010008706
First Edition: May 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Tasha
My sun, my moon, and my stars—only brighter and
more beautiful
DIE TWICE
He had two guns, as I expected. His service weapon, and a backup. A factory-fresh Beretta M9/92F, and an ancient, scratched Walther PPK. One under his left arm, the other strapped to his left ankle.
Both still in their holsters.
There’s a strict protocol for bringing the career of a fellow professional to a premature end. It demanded that I take out the Beretta. Place it in his right hand. Curl his index finger through the trigger guard. Release the safety. Discharge at least one round. Give him the final dignity of appearing to whoever found his body that he’d at least gone down fighting.
I’d always followed those rules before. With an Armenian. Two Iranians. A Peruvian. A Ukrainian. Even a Frenchman, on one bizarre occasion. But that evening, I left the guns where they were. I didn’t even loosen the straps that held them in place. I just left him lying facedown on the strip of coarse office carpet, picked up the green metal flask he’d been so desperate to take, and walked away.
He was from Royal Navy Intelligence, just like me.
The insult I’d paid him was deliberate. Calculated. Unmistakable, to anyone from our world.
And only ever paid to a traitor.
ONE
I come from a small family. My mother was an only child. My father had one sister, but they weren’t close. We didn’t see much of her even when I was a kid. Partly because she still lived in Ireland, and my parents found it a nuisance to get over there. But mostly because the two of them didn’t get on. My dad is very practical and down-to-earth. If he can’t see or touch or taste something, it doesn’t exist. My aunt was the absolute opposite. Her life was barely her own. She abdicated all personal responsibility and just drifted happily along, governed by an endless stream of signs and omens and portents and premonitions.
The premonitions in particular drove a wedge between the two of them. He thought she was some kind of crazy, half-pagan simpleton. She thought he was too stiff and stubborn to see the world in front of his nose. And so anytime the family was together, they fought. Relentlessly. Not physically, obviously. It was more subtle than that. At some point, soon after we arrived, she would announce a prediction. We would be waiting for it. He would denounce it. Then the duel would begin. There’d be endless, pointed looks. Barbed comments. Contrived, cynical observations. The level of sarcasm would ratchet higher and higher until one was proved right and the other descended into days of impenetrable sulking.
Believe me, those visits were always fun.
My own view falls somewhere between the two. I certainly don’t believe the future is already set. We’re not helpless. Our destiny is ultimately in our own hands. But take some time to think, mix that with a little experience, and it’s not too hard to see what’s waiting around the corner.
In some circumstances, at least.
Mainly the ones involving bosses and their stupid plans.
I knew no one was following me, but I still had the cab from Midway drop me half a mile from my destination. But this was no random paranoia. Old habits die hard. The first thing you always do when you’re sent somewhere new is tap into the service grapevine. To find out how the land lies in your next city. It’s quicker and more efficient than any corporate intranet I’ve ever come across. And from what I’d been hearing about the current state of play, a little extra caution would not be out of place.
The ride in from the airport felt strangely flat. I had no idea why I’d been sent to Chicago, but that wasn’t unusual. You begin lots of assignments without the slightest clue what you’re going to be asked to do. And the way a mission looks on paper is generally a million miles from how it plays out in the field. For me, that’s part of the excitement. Like being a handed a Polaroid photograph, fresh from the camera, and watching as the image gradually takes shape on the warm, shiny paper. But the familiar feeling of promise and anticipation was completely missing that morning. Normally I love the first glimpse of a new place, but as I watched the cityscape morphing out of the traffic haze, it left me absolutely cold. Because I knew I wasn’t going to have anything meaningful to do, there. I was just passing through. Quickly, I hoped. I should have been called straight back to London. This detour had the feeling of a wrong turn about it. The sense that the fallout from my last mission—or the debacle that followed it—had knocked me off the freeway and shunted my career onto an obscure backstreet. I needed to get back into the thick of things, to put the record straight. And to find some real work to do. Something to keep me from dwelling too long on absent friends.
My orders were simple. Report to a liaison officer called Richard Fothergill. I’d never worked with the guy, but I’d heard him talked about often enough over the years. The prospect of meeting him was the one ray of sunshine cutting through the heavy, swirling clouds that had filled the sky since dawn. And not because he was supposed to be nice. His reputation made him out to be pretty much the opposite. Which actually seemed like a good thing, that morning. Recent events had left me with no wish to add to my circle of friends.
In my profession there’s a line that’s better not crossed when it comes to building friendships. The rationale is pretty obvious. And the line is even more pronounced when it comes to closer, more personal relationships. This rule was made clear to me when I first started out, and back then I’d never have dreamed of breaking it. Assignment after assignment came and went, and I never wavered. I never came close. I never thought I would. And then, three years ago, something happened to change that. Or rather, someone. My liaison officer on a job in Madrid. Tanya Wilson. The most spectacular human who ever lived.
Tanya and I both knew the conventions. We were aware of the protocols. We’d heard all the wise words and sensible advice from the senior ranks. But despite everything, the line that divided us evaporated before our eyes. I felt like it had never existed. Without it, we started to fall. And we’d have fallen all the way—there’s no doubt—if it hadn’t been for two things. A spell in the hospital for me. And a transfer order for her.