Chapter 2
Zinal, Switzerland
One month earlier
Mac looked at the sky.
Dark clouds tumbled over the mountaintops and advanced across the valley, an ominous gray blanket slowly blocking out the sun. He felt a drop of rain. A storm was moving in.
“Slow down, Kat,” he shouted. “Let Papa catch up.”
He continued down the hill, doing his best to keep up with the little girl. They were off trail, and he had to be watchful for gopher holes and clumps of heather.
“Another one!” His granddaughter, Katya, ran ahead, calling out whenever she spotted an edelweiss. She was four years old, blond, and endlessly inquisitive.
“Good for you,” said Mac, but all the while his eyes scanned the slopes. It was his sniper’s gaze. Focused, suspicious, wary. He wasn’t concerned about the storm. He gave it a quarter of an hour until it started coming down. There was something else.
They were being watched.
He hadn’t seen anyone, not yet, but he knew all the same. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, as if an electric current pulsed through the air. He’d had the feeling too many times to count. Ignore at your peril.
“Papa, here! Look!” The little girl stooped to pluck a flower.
Mac marveled at how he’d come to love her so.
Barely twelve months had passed since she’d come into his life.
It hadn’t been easy at first. Up at the crack of dawn.
Constant supervision. Endless engagement.
“Oh really? Is that right? Good for you, sweetheart.” Now he couldn’t imagine his life without her.
He’d been a lousy father the first time around, absent for months at a time; absent in a different way when he’d been at home. Katya was his second chance.
Her mother had been Russian, an officer in the SVR, Russia’s spy service. Like his son, Will, she had been betrayed by a mole inside the CIA. Like his son, she had died on the Matterhorn.
Katya ran to him, proudly displaying a fistful of flowers. Mac scooped her up into his arms and counted the edelweiss in her hand. “Four,” he said. “One more than yesterday.”
“Tomorrow I’ll find five.”
“I’m counting on it,” said Mac, kissing her on the cheek and setting her down.
That was when he saw him. A short, portly man, more or less his age, navy jacket, new hiking boots, walking sticks. A day tourist like any other who came up on weekends. Except today was Wednesday, and they weren’t anywhere near the marked trails. And besides, Mac recognized him.
They’d finally come for him.
“Hello, Mac. Long time, no see.” The man threw off a casual salute. His name was Don Baker. Back in the day, he’d been Mac’s boss. Deputy assistant director of special operations or something like that.
“Hello, Don.” Mac waved and gave a look around. Two women had taken up positions behind him. Both were dressed in jeans and sweaters, worn boots; locals, to look at. Mac knew better.
“Don’t just stand there like a stranger,” growled Baker. “Get over here. I want a handshake and a hug.”
Mac wasn’t afraid. Baker hadn’t ventured all this way to Switzerland to kill him. Not here. Not at three o’clock in the afternoon on a rainy autumn day, a stone’s throw from the town’s main drag. This was about something else.
He took Katya’s hand. Together they approached the visitor. Baker hadn’t aged well. Heavy jowls. Bulbous nose. Rheumy eyes and bags heavy enough to anchor a carrier. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his hair, an impressive reddish-brown thatch that better belonged on a college undergrad.
“You found me,” said Mac. As ordered, he shook Baker’s hand. The hug could wait.
“You didn’t make it hard,” said Baker. “Lit up a lot of screens.”
“What took you so long?”
“We’ll come to that.” Baker leaned down to address the little girl. “Your name is Katya, right? I’m a friend of your grandfather. We used to work together.”
“Did you take care of the cows too?” asked Katya.
“Cows?” Baker asked Mac, alarmed.
“I look after them during the summer,” Mac explained. “Up on the alp.” He gestured to the hillside behind them. “Swiss brown. About sixty of them. There’s a dairy up there and . . . ah, forget it.”
“Cows,” said Baker, raising his brows. “So, you’re what . . . a herder?”
“Something like that,” said Mac.
Baker laughed spiritedly. “Well, I never. The great Mac Dekker, a cowherd.” He put a hand on Mac’s arm. “I’m sorry about Will. Damn good man.”
“He was,” said Mac.
“Not sure I could have done what he did.”
“He did what he had to,” said Mac. It was a question that kept him up at night. Where had his son gotten the strength to sacrifice his life? “How ’bout a drink?”
“About time you found your manners,” said Baker, throwing an arm around Mac’s shoulder. “And make it a double, goddamn it.”
They sat in Mac’s study. It was a cozy room with arolla pine walls, a leather sofa in one corner, and a fireplace. Mac found a bottle of scotch with an unpronounceable name that had gathered dust for years.
“I’ll say this,” Baker began, but not before taking a sip. “You came back with a bang. Not a peep for eight years, then ‘Boom!’ There was your face on every camera in Switzerland. Sierre, Zermatt, Zurich. A regular movie star.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” said Mac.
“You look good on camera, by the way,” said Baker. “Especially after you got rid of the beard.”
Ah, the beard, Mac remembered. Part of his effort to look older. No one looked twice at a seventy-year-old with graying hair and bad posture. “I thought you’d come sooner.”
“We considered it,” said Baker. “But it was all over so quickly. What was it? A couple of days? And, by then Ilya was dead and we knew everything.”
“You never knew about him? About Thorpe?”
Thorpe was Calvin Thorpe—formerly CIA station chief for Switzerland—since deceased.
“That he was a double?” Baker grimaced, a bad memory confronted. “There were suspicions. You had lots of friends, me included. It was hard to swallow the story he was peddling.”
“But not too hard,” said Mac.
“It came down to the money,” said Baker. “No one believed the Russians would dump five million into an account just to nail one guy.”
“That’s why they did it,” said Mac. “They knew you’d fall for it every time.”
Baker nodded, a world-weary shrug his only apology. “Goddamn agency,” he said. “It gets crazy on the seventh floor. Someone whispers ‘mole’ and the whole place starts seeing shadows. You know how it is.”
“I was a field guy, Don.”
“The best.”
“Give it a rest,” said Mac. “I’m too old for that.”
“You and me both, buddy.” Baker finished his drink in a swallow, then slammed the glass onto the coffee table. “I’m here to apologize and make good.”
“That right?” Mac laughed cynically. “I don’t blame you, Don. Like you said, it’s how things work.”
“I’m not kidding,” said Baker. “I’ve come to bring you back to life. Officially.”
Mac put down his glass. “How ‘officially’?”
“Clear your name. Take the target off your back. That kind of ‘officially.’”
“Bullshit,” said Mac.
Baker placed his hand over his heart. “Hand to God.”
Mac stared at Baker. Was this for real? The CIA did not admit it was wrong. “Tell me you’re kidding, Don, and we can both laugh about it later.”
Baker gazed at him earnestly. “No joke, buddy.”
“I want it in writing,” said Mac.
“Why spoil a good thing?” said Baker. “Some secrets best remain buried.”
“I’m not dead, Don.”
“I’m not talking about you,” said Baker. “No one needs to know that the Agency had a Russian mole on its payroll for twenty years.”
“He got my son killed.”
“And he paid for it with his life,” said Baker.
“I’m sorry. I truly am. We all are.” He leaned closer.
Time to make his case. “Look, Mac, we’ve got a bunch of crazies in Congress looking for a reason to defund the intelligence community.
Why poke the hornet’s nest? I’ve been sent to say ‘thank you’ and—”
“Keep your mouth shut,” said Mac.
“—and to inform you that your salary for the past nine years has been deposited into an account at the Valais Cantonal Bank. Tax free. You received a promotion too. Senior Executive Service.”
Senior Executive Service pay was the holy grail of government workers and only offered to the longest-serving and highest-ranking officials. It was nothing like Wall Street, but no one went to work for the government to get rich.
“You’re serious?” said Mac.
“As a heart attack, buddy. This is your lucky day.” Baker slid an envelope across the table.
Mac opened it and removed a deposit slip from the Cantonal Bank of Valais in the amount of $1.
55 million. He glanced up at Baker, then back at the receipt.
His first reaction was suspicion. It was too much money.
There had to be a catch. Then he saw it.
The account belonged to Robert Steinhardt, the identity he’d assumed all those years ago.
“Tell me the rest of it,” said Mac.
“Are you kidding me?” said Baker. “We hand you a million and a half bucks, tell you you’re a free man, target officially off your back, and you’re not happy. Go on. Get out of here. Live as you please. Travel. Do some climbing. Milk some cows. Enjoy life.”
“I’m waiting,” said Mac.
Baker rose and poured himself another drink. “Rules are simple enough. Keep your head down. Don’t talk about this—not a word. In fact, we’d prefer you didn’t reach out to anyone from the old days.”
“Want to clarify that?”
“No contact whatsoever,” said Baker. “Mackenzie David Dekker is dead. Stay that way.”
“And that’s an order,” said Mac.
“Want to give me back the check?”
Mac took a second look at the deposit slip, allowing himself a moment to absorb what that kind of money meant and weigh it against Baker’s demands. The decision was easy enough. Mac had no plans to go spouting off his mouth. Discretion had always been part of the job. “Understood,” he said.
“You need anything,” said Baker, “. . . and I’m talking emergencies only . . . call me. I’ll give you my direct number.”
“And Jane?” Mac’s daughter, Jane McCall, had followed him into the business. Currently, she was acting CIA station chief in Berlin.
“She’s family,” said Baker. “I imagine she’s happy to have her father back in her life. We don’t see any reason to keep you from reestablishing your relationship. But quietly, Mac. Church mice. And don’t ask her to fix any parking tickets.”
“Why would I?” said Mac.
“Who knows?” said Baker. “Things happen.”
“Church mice,” said Mac.
“Exactly.” Baker stepped closer. “Just so you know,” he continued, the cheeriness suddenly gone, “not everyone is on board with how your matter was resolved, not least the money. A few of the guys aren’t so forgiving.
They think you made them . . . made us, the Agency .
. . look bad. ‘Once convicted, always convicted,’ the thinking goes.
Be careful, buddy. You might not get a second reprieve. ”
“What are you trying to tell me, Don?”
“They won’t miss a second time,” said Baker. “Don’t give them a reason.”
Mac didn’t take Baker’s words as a threat. Like he’d said: rules. Cross the line and this is what will happen. Mac was a big boy. Fair was fair. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“So, we’re good?” said Baker.
“Solid,” said Mac.
“Well, hip hip hooray then,” boomed Baker before slapping Mac on the back. “You can smile now, you rich SOB.”
Mac smiled.
Baker finished his drink. “So, what the hell have you been up to for the last nine years besides humping cows?”
As usual it was Baker who had the last word. They’d talked the last nine years. The changes at the Agency. Who’d left, who’d died, who’d been promoted. All the gossip.
Mac gave Baker the inside scoop on what had gone down a year earlier.
Everything he knew about Hercules, the Russian plot against the Kyiv water supply system.
He wanted Baker to know the details. How close they’d come to disaster.
How Mac’s actions had prevented it. One day he might need a friend on the seventh floor.
“Sorry to miss Ava,” said Baker, as they stood in the doorway of the Chalet Ponderosa. Night had fallen. The air was cold, sharp, tangy with woodsmoke.
“She’s in St. Moritz,” said Mac. “Physical therapy.”
“How’s that coming?”
“Pretty good,” said Mac. “Shoulder surgery is tough. Amazing doctor. Gerhard Lutz. He’s a wizard.”
“Lutz? In St. Moritz?”
“Know him?”
Baker shook his head. “For a second, I thought it rang a bell. But no. Never heard the name.”
Mac dismissed the comment, wondering why Baker was so defensive. “I’ll give Ava your best.”
Baker laid a meaty palm on Mac’s shoulder. “A word?”
“Sure,” said Mac.
“Be careful,” said Baker.
“What do you mean?”
Baker pulled a face. An uncomfortable truth that needed airing. “You know . . . the Israeli thing.”
“What about it?” asked Mac.
“I don’t have to tell you,” said Baker. “Israelis only fight for one side. Their own.”