He recalled the two names referenced in the SVR document he’d found in Yevtushenko’s house.
Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev.
Kurt Schreiber.
He was now certain that one of them was the man who called himself William.
He sighed. “It’s a real pity you don’t know the identity of Rubner’s CIA case handlers.”
Geoffrey shrugged. “Even if I did, sounds like they’d have no idea where Rubner’s at right now.” He frowned. “There is one guy who’ll know their identity.”
Will leaned forward, expectant.
“He’s one of yours-MI6. Up until recently, he was based in the British embassy in Washington, acting under first-secretary cover though he was fully declared to us, operating as liaison to my side of the fence. Specifically, he was the only Brit who was allowed to handle the Rubner intelligence.”
“How do you know his identity?”
“He’s always been listed on the intelligence reports’ distribution lists, together with the instruction that any inquiries related to U.K. actions resulting from Rubner’s intel should be directed to him.”
Will’s mind raced. Such an individual would have made it his business to ensure that the Rubner intelligence was accurate, and that meant he would certainly have interacted with his CIA handlers. “What’s his name?”
Geoffrey drummed his fingers, clearly trying to remember. “Got it. Like the Greek island-Rhodes. Peter Rhodes.”
“Rhodes!” Patrick’s face flushed red with anger.
Will’s heart sank. “You’re sure?”
Geoffrey nodded. “Of course. What’s wrong?”
Will didn’t answer.
Nor did Patrick.
Both were in shock.
Rhodes had never mentioned his involvement in the Rubner case.
And such involvement could only mean one thing.
Peter Rhodes was the traitor who’d supplied the CIA unit with his name and address.
Thirty-One
Dark clouds hung over Frankfurt as Kronos walked along Tongesgasse carrying a canvas overnight bag. He entered an Internet cafe, ordered a coffee, and purchased thirty minutes of Web use. Choosing a terminal at the far end of the establishment, he ensured that his screen could not be seen by any of the cafe’s other occupants, then logged on.
Within seconds, he was staring at Holland’s AIS air traffic control website. He clicked Online Flight Plan, then filled in the user name and password-information he’d stolen from the KLM pilot he’d followed from the Frankfurt airport to the city’s Westin Grand hotel. The man had been sleeping while Kronos had sat on the other side of the room and used the pilot’s BlackBerry to load the AIS website, click on the Forgot Password button, read the subsequent AIS e-mail reminding him of his password details, and then delete the mail.
He’d been certain that the pilot would be registered with the site, a portal that was only available to Dutch nationals who were involved in Holland’s aviation industry. But if it’d turned out that the pilot wasn’t an existing member, Kronos would have used his name, passport number, and aviation ID to register. There’d been no need-the man had been a member since he’d earned his wings five years ago.
Kronos took a swig of his coffee as he was directed to a new page. After entering a date, he stared at the information before him. One entry told him exactly what he needed to know.
After logging out of the site and deleting his Internet browsing history, he exited the cafe. Forty minutes later, he was standing in a pay phone in Frankfurt Hauptwache train station. He called a number in Holland, gave the man who answered six letters followed by the number he was calling from, then hung up. Five seconds later the pay phone rang.
He answered and spoke to the man for two minutes before concluding, “I may have to fire a lot of rounds, so you’ll need to make large custom magazines. But it’s crucial the magazine doesn’t unbalance the weapon.”
He called another Dutch number, repeated the same security routine with six different letters, and when the man called him back he gave him precise instructions, ending with “No bigger than a lighter. And I’ll need spares to test their effect.”
Replacing the handset, he walked briskly across the concourse and boarded a train headed to Stuttgart. As the train pulled out, a couple and their two young children paused by the empty seats in front of him. The mother said to Kronos, “Everywhere back there’s full. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“I must warn you though-my kids are on a high because we took them to the zoo today. I’d understand if you’d prefer quieter companions.”
Kronos laughed. “I’ve got twins. I can sleep through anything. Please, take the seats.”
He closed his eyes. Soon he’d be back in the Black Forest and home with his children. And no doubt they’d be on a high when they saw him. After he cuddled his sons, he’d pretend to be stern with them and say that they needed to finish their homework before their bath time. If they were good, his reward would be the two nineteenth-century German wooden soldier toys he’d bought them.
He imagined their faces lighting up as they unwrapped the brown paper packaging and looked at the Prussian guards.
The soldiers’ faces were stoic, noble, with integrity. They looked like they had a job to do.
Just as he did.
He thought about some of the most challenging assassinations he’d conducted. None of them had been as complex as the one he was now planning.
But that didn’t matter, because he knew exactly what he was doing and was in no doubt that he’d be able to get close enough to his target to smell the man’s fear.
Thirty-Two
Will walked slowly along the banks of the river Spree, adjacent to several hundred yards of the remains of the Berlin Wall. A fine rain started to descend, and he pulled up the collar of his overcoat and put his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t moving toward any destination, just needed time to think-aside from traveling back to Germany, he’d done little else since his conversation with Geoffrey Pepper.
Part of him felt anger. He was certain that Peter Rhodes had given Rubner’s CIA case officer Will’s identity and home address, had wittingly or unwittingly set in motion a sequence of events that had led to his sister needing to go into hiding, and had betrayed knowledge of Will’s intention to break into Yevtushenko’s house.
But he also felt confused and sad. Peter was naturally likable, smart, irreverent, yet thoroughly professional. And he was courageous. Despite immense danger to himself, his service as a NOC had required him to play the part of an advisor to a murderous businessman with a nerveless performance. He was a natural actor, and Will now wondered if he used that skill to hide a less pleasant aspect of his personality. He decided that wasn’t the case. Peter could be a chameleon when in the field, but when he was surrounded by MI6 officers he was himself.
He leaned against the remains of the Berlin Wall, trying to decide what to do. If he involved Alistair, the Controller would send men to grab Peter, take him back to the United Kingdom, and put him on secret trial. That would almost certainly result in the officer being given life imprisonment. Will could put two bullets in his head. When the truth came out, nobody would question his action. But even though Peter deserved both, neither decision seemed right.
He stayed still for fifteen minutes, allowing rainwater to wash over his face as he stared at the river. Most of the time he rigorously protected his independence and ability to make decisions on his own. But occasionally there were moments when he wished he could walk away and let others go through the anguish of trying to decide the solutions to situations like these. Now was one of those moments.
But he had to make a decision.
He reached for his cell phone, hesitated, then called Roger.