Author: Matthew Dunn
Series: Spycatcher Novel
Genre: Thriller
Publication Date: April 28, 2015 Mass Market Paperback
Publisher: HarperCollins
Imprint: Harper
Pages: 464
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Will Cochrane has been called by critics a "ruthless yet noble" (Ft. Worth Star-Telegram), "one-man weapon of mass destruction" (Daily Telegraph), and a brilliant agent from whom "Bond and Bourne could learn a thing or two" (Madison County Herald). But when Will encounters a Russian spymaster--codenamed Antaeus--who is very much alive despite being thought long-dead, Will is thrust into a deadly scheme that points to powerful players deep within the U.S. intelligence community. Will has worked with the CIA for years and knows them all, but now he also knows there’s no one he can really trust.
Will’s orders from Langley are clear: DO NOT TOUCH ANTAEUS. HE IS AN ASSET WITH PROJECT FERRYMAN. But as he watches Antaeus and his men attempt to execute the CIA’s own best agents, Will refuses to stand down and takes his own shot at the spymaster, knowing he will become a wanted man as a result.
Now the only way to save his career—and his life—is to get into the U.S. and uncover the truth about Project Ferryman. Except four deadly Russian assassins are on his trail, along with an elite FBI team controlled by shadowy officials who will stop at nothing to keep their secrets from ever seeing the light of day.
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Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Prague, 2005
It was no easy task to identify
a spy and make that person betray their country. But that was what the Russian
man was here to do.
Wearing
a black dinner suit, he entered the Intercontinental hotel’s Congress Hall and
fixed a grin on his face so that he looked like every other insincere diplomat
who was attending the American embassy’s cocktail party. There were
hundreds of them, men and women, beautiful, plain, and ugly, from at least
forty different countries. The less experienced of them were huddled awkwardly
in small protective groups, pouring champagne down their throats to ease the
pain of being here.
The
Russian wasn’t interested in them.
Instead
he was here because he wanted to watch the people who he termed “the predators”;
the seasoned, clever, heads-crammed-full-of- juicy-secrets, diplomats who
glided through events like these, moving from one person to another, offering
brief, charming, inane comments, touching arms as if the act conveyed profound
meaning, before floating effortlessly to the next person. Diplomats
called it “working the room”, but the Russian understood that wasn’t what they
were doing. They were controlling the room and everything within it, watching
for a moment where they could snatch a vital piece of information from someone
weaker than themselves, or choosing the right moment to speak a few carefully
chosen words and manipulate vulnerable minds.
The
Russian knew the predators, and some of them thought they knew him - Radimir
Kirsanov, a forty something, low level diplomat who was on a short term posting
to the Russian embassy in the Czech Republic. The women in the room liked
Radimir because he had cute cheek dimples, sky blue eyes, blond and silver hair
that was styled in the cut of a 1960s movie star, and had the physique of a
tennis player – the kind of shape that was not particularly good or bad in the
naked flesh, but one that wore a suit with rapier-like panache. Plus, they
thought his dim mind made their superior intellects shine. The men, on
the other hand, briefly glanced at him with disdain, as if he was a brainless
male model.
Radimir
grabbed a glass of champagne from one of the dozens of black and white
uniformed waiters who were navigating their way across the vast room, dodging
diplomats, and skirting around tables covered in immaculate starched white
cloths that were kept firmly in place by heavy candelabra and artificial flower
presentations. The Russian held the glass in front of his chest, with no
intention of drinking from it, moved past a bored-looking string quartet, and
walked into the party. All around him was the sound of laughter, manifold
languages, and women brushing against men who were not their partners.
Radimir
made sure he didn’t glide with the confidence and precision of a
predator. He wasn’t supposed to have the skills to do that.
Instead, he meandered his way across the room, smiling to show off his
dimples. He stood in the corner, shifting his weight from one foot to the
other, sometimes smoothing a hand against his suit as if he was fidgeting
because he was not at ease and had sweaty palms.
For a
while, people noticed him. Beautiful people get that kind of attention.
But as with gorgeous art, there’s a limited period of time one can stare at a
good looking person before it becomes boring. After thirty minutes, he
was sure he was now invisible.
He moved
to another part of the room, not too far, just a few yards to the next table
where he could pick at some canapés and fiddle with part of the flower
display. All of the time he kept his gaze low, because he didn’t want to
embarrass himself by talking to someone cleverer than him. Thankfully,
the Demigods around him knew that Radimir was aware of his limitations so they
left him alone. It was the only good thing they did for him.
Holding
his champagne glass with two hands so that he looked like an amateur at these
types of events, he walked to another table, then another, then several
more. Forty minutes later he returned to his starting point in the corner
of the room. Poor Radimir, he imagined the pros would think if any of
them had seen his awkward and pointless amble around the room, though he
doubted any of them had noticed. The predators were moving up a gear,
pouncing on late and desirable new arrivals, placing firm arms around them and
guiding them to someone they didn’t know but just had to meet, cracking jokes,
whispering in ears, kissing cheeks, flattering, nodding with sage expressions,
and all the time acting to hide their agenda: pure lust for information.
The
Russian placed his full glass on the table, leaned back against the wall,
folded his arms, and smiled his very best pretty and dumb smile. He’d practiced
the expression many times in front of mirrors and he was convinced he’d
perfected the look. It was an expression that he hoped said, I’m resigned
to the fact that my looks are all I have.
It kept
people away. Even the ones who were as dim-witted as he was, because no
one wants to stand next to a man who’s as stupid as they are but four times
more attractive.
Radimir
momentarily closed his eyes.
When he
opened them, he was the cleverest person in the room.
A man
who was not called Radimir.
Instead,
someone who was known to a limited number of people as Gregori Shonin, an SVR
intelligence officer. And a predator with skills that were way beyond those of
the other predators around him.
There
was a third side to the Russian, one that did not carry the false names of
Radimir or Gregori, one that was the truth, but right now that was buried so deep
inside him that he gave it little thought. This evening, being Gregori
undercover as Radimir was sufficient for what he hoped to achieve.
Gregori’s
huge intellect was processing a vast amount of data, all gleaned from his forty
minute walk through the room. Hundreds of voices and sentences, many of
them in English, some in other languages he understood fluently, only a few in
tongues he didn’t understand or care about. He spent several minutes
doing nothing more than deliberately forgetting most of what he’d heard.
Ejecting the crap, was how he like to term the cognitive process. It was an
arduous task but necessary because at the end of it his mind would picture
himself standing in this huge room, not with hundreds of diplomats from all
around the world, but instead with one or two officials who worked for
countries he loathed and who’d said or done something interesting.
Something
that suggested they had the potential to spy on his behalf.
He
continued the process of ejecting. Introductions, pleasantries, small talk,
lots of “How long have you been posted here?”, several people lying about how
beautiful the American hostess looked tonight, a few jaded comments about
last week’s G7 summit, bad humor, and a fairly amusing anecdote from an Italian
diplomat about her experience at a Mongolian tribal feast. All crap.
Gregori
stared ahead. The room was still buzzing at full capacity, but in his
mind he imagined that only one American couple was in the place. Both were
predators. They were standing still, frozen in Gregori’s radar as he
walked around them, staring at their faces from different angles as he sought a
glance into their eyes and their very souls.
The
husband was an experienced CIA officer who’d been previously posted to the
Agency’s stations in London, Abu Dhabi, and Pretoria. He’d been in Prague
for two and a half years and was due to return to Langley in six months.
He was thirty seven years old, no doubt smart and capable, and had met his wife
while both were studying at Harvard. She too could have gone on to have
an excellent job in government, though early on they had decided that the
overseas life of an Agency spouse would preclude her having a career. So,
she’d agreed to be the good wife, accompany him on his overseas postings,
support him in every way, and in return he could give her a couple of kids. But
so far they’d been unsuccessful in having children.
They
were in the room for two reasons. One was a hushed and angry comment made
by the husband to his wife.
“Are you
sure that’s where you were this afternoon?”
The
other reason was perfume.
The wife
loved Dolce & Gabbana perfumes, so much so that she would never step
outside of her home without applying too much of it to her throat and
wrists. At events like these, one didn’t have to stand too close to her
to smell the unmistakable rich scent on her skin.
But tonight was different, because she wore no such scent
Where was she this afternoon? Gregori thought through the possibilities. A
place she’d gone to clutching the ball gown she’d collected from the dry
cleaners. A venue where she could get dressed in comfort, fix her hair,
and put on makeup that she’d brought along in her handbag. Some location
that didn’t allow her time to rush home before meeting her husband at the
party. And she would have desperately wanted to go home, when she’d
realized she’d forgotten to pack her beloved perfume.
Where
was that place? Like all top spies, Gregori used his instincts and imagination
to fill in the gaps. Of course, that place was another man’s home. The
woman had been unfaithful to her husband. She’d dressed for the party after
she’d made love.
Gregori
smiled.
Her
infidelity could give him leverage over her husband.
His boss
would be very pleased with Gregori’s work.
Because
his boss was the brilliant spymaster Antaeus, a man who had devoted his whole
life to crippling America.
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Fourth in the series - was just going to ask that. I'd need to find the first book.
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