Free Spycatcher by Matthew Dunn

moment and crouched down beside Ewan’s body. He placed a thumb and forefinger around the man’s nose and pulled Ewan’s head sideways. The man had been shot through the brain with a silenced weapon. Will checked the man’s breathing. Ewan was dead.
    He patted his hands against Ewan’s legs and stomach, reached into one of the dead man’s pockets, and drew out his cell phone. He placed it into his own jacket and rose to a standing position, surveying his surroundings and listening carefully. He could not see or hear anything that suggested a nearby attacker. Besides, even if the killer was still nearby, Will decided that he would have been shot already if he were also a target. He thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets and walked rapidly away from Ewan’s body toward the city’s side streets and alleys.

Eight
    W ill looked out of the adjacent window and could see the first indications of sunrise. He sat in an Air France carrier, and the early-morning light gave glimpses of the snow-clad Swiss Alps beneath him. He took a sip of his tea and rubbed his temples. He shook his head as he pictured Ewan twist and fall down dead, then sighed as he recalled the man’s words:
    I often wonder if that man really exists.
    He looked away from the Alps and closed his eyes. He rarely dwelt on past missions, but Ewan’s words forced snippets of what had happened in Algeria into his mind.
    He remembered Alistair’s message:
    The team can’t get there in time. The woman and her child are going to be slaughtered.
    He recalled his own response:
    I’m going to stop that from happening.
    And he recalled Alistair’s command:
    No you aren’t. It’s too dangerous.
    He remembered observing the house, seeing men arrive, seeing lights go on and off in rooms, checking the time on his watch, seeing dusk turn to night, pulling out his handgun and knife, breathing carefully, focusing on the gun-carrying sentry by the front door, sprinting at him, thrusting his knife into the man’s stomach. He remembered running into the house, shooting as he moved along corridors and through rooms and seeing men fall as his bullets struck them in the head. He remembered jumping down a set of stairs into a large basement. He remembered his heart beating fast as he saw the camera and other equipment. He remembered thinking the room looked like a film studio. He remembered seeing two men rush toward him with guns raised. He remembered kicking one of them away as he shot the other, then shooting the prone man. He remembered training his gun on the four men who stood behind the kneeling mother and her seven-year-old daughter. He remembered how the men smiled as they held their swords firmly against their captives’ throats. He remembered hesitating for the tiniest of moments as he calculated the distance between each man. He remembered shooting four bullets in less than a second. He remembered seeing all four men fall down, each with a bullet in his brain.
    He could see the prisoners before him now. He could see himself cutting through their ropes. He could see the mother shaking with fear and shock. He could see the girl look at him, grab him with both arms, and pull him to her. He could see him holding her gently and telling her she was safe now. He recalled thinking that nothing else mattered to him besides saving these two innocent lives. He could see him lifting the girl in his arms. And he remembered her words:
    Did God send you?

Nine
    W ill had arrived in Paris.
    It was the morning after Ewan’s assassination, and the city was covered with frost rather than snow. Will pulled out a pad and checked his handwritten notes again. Via telephone, Alistair had provided him with an address and a concise biography of the person he wanted to meet. Will closed the pad and placed it back in his coat pocket. He stepped out of the Charles de Gaulle International Airport terminal and hailed a taxi.
    Within