Nobody’s Hero (Ben Koenig #2)

Chapter 93

Koenig took charge when they got to JFK. Securing prisoners was bread and butter to an ex-marshal. There would be no Con Air escapades on this flight.

He wanted to talk to Margaret first. It was the right play. Nash was a subcontractor. A hired gun. She hadn’t seen the bigger picture. Margaret seemed more involved. She could add colour to Tas’s operation. Context. And Koenig thought context would be important when it came to questioning Nash. Hobbs had said she hadn’t understood the significance of what she’d overheard. That it had meant nothing to her. But it was important enough for Margaret to break cover and stop him stone-dead. Literally. So when Nash told him what it was she’d overheard, he needed to already know what Margaret knew.

He pushed Nash to the rear of the plane, where he fitted her with leg cuffs and rigid handcuffs, which he fitted to a belly chain. Hannibal Lecter had fewer restraints. Koenig then strapped her to the table. It looked like she was on a gurney.

He returned to the front of the Gulfstream. He didn’t close the door that separated the two sections. He trusted the restraints, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off Nash. Not for a second. He’d hunted the worst America had to offer, but he hadn’t seen anything like her before.

Margaret was in the same seat she’d used on the flight to New York.

‘You want her cuffed, Koenig?’ Draper asked.

‘Have you checked her for another hairpin?’

‘She’s clean.’

‘Then I don’t want her cuffed.’

The pilot stepped out from the cockpit. He gave Draper a thumbs-up. ‘We’re cleared for takeoff, ma’am,’ he said.

Draper said, ‘Let’s go.’

They waited for the Gulfstream to get into the air. It didn’t take long. They didn’t have to wait in line for a slot on the runway. Koenig suspected Smerconish had prioritised their flight. The Gulfstream climbed until it reached its cruising altitude, then levelled off. The pilot turned off the fasten seat belts sign. Nobody had been wearing one. Koenig guessed it was regulations.

‘Do you want a drink, Margaret?’ Draper said. ‘This is a six-hour flight and I suspect you’ll be talking for most of it.’

‘I’d better take a coffee then.’

Koenig walked over to the drinks station and poured her a cup. Filled it with cream and sugar. Lots of quick-release energy. He placed it on the table in front of Margaret. Some of it slopped over the rim. ‘Sorry,’ he said, but made no move to clean it.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she said. She took a sip and sighed in appreciation. ‘You Americans might not be able to make tea, but your coffee has always been excellent.’

‘How were you recruited, Margaret?’ Koenig said.

‘The usual way. I was approached while I was lecturing abroad. We all were. It wasn’t uncommon, and as long as we reported it, it wasn’t a problem.’

‘Approached by who?’

‘By whom , dear.’

‘Sorry. Approached by whom?’

‘They never said, but I imagine it was the intelligence service of whatever country I was in at the time.’

‘Countries hostile to the US?’

‘Not always, dear. I’m told spying on our friends is just as much fun.’

Koenig glanced at Draper.

She shrugged. ‘We need to know what everyone is thinking.’

‘Which of these agents was the one . . .’ He trailed off.

‘What is it?’ Draper asked.

Koenig didn’t answer. Something in the back of his mind was trying to grab his attention. It had been there since Margaret stuck a hairpin in Hobbs, growing slowly and insidiously, like her cancer. He wondered what had prompted it. He tried to remember every conversation they’d had, but this time he put everything through the filter of someone living a lie. He thought she’d made a mistake, although he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He broke down the problem. Margaret had her cover story, and it would have been well rehearsed. But inevitably, a large part of it was improvisation. She couldn’t predict everything. At some point she would encounter something she hadn’t planned for. Good agents, even ones with impeccable legends, had to be able to think on their feet. Then they had to remember what they’d said. Sometimes for the rest of their lives.

He mentally backed up. He stumbled over something again. Not something he’d said. Something he’d thought .

A word.

It was ‘agent’.

For some reason the word ‘agent’ was bothering him. He didn’t know why, only that it was. Margaret must have mentioned it. Probably in passing, and without the current context it hadn’t meant anything. And she’d said it freely, hadn’t tried to correct herself. Hadn’t realised she’d made a mistake. He cast his mind way back, ended up in the middle of a conversation they’d had in the Scottish Highlands. They’d been talking about her illness. She’d used ‘agent’ when discussing her cancer.

And then, like he’d swept his hands across a cluttered desk, everything became clear. He knew what was bothering him. Trusting Margaret had been a terrible mistake. They were making another one now. He removed his Fairbairn–Sykes and placed it on the table. Spun it round until the blade was facing Margaret.

‘What is it?’ Draper asked again.

‘Her cancer’s a lie,’ he said. ‘Margaret isn’t dying.’ He took a few beats to let that register. ‘And because she faked her diagnosis two years before Bess’s guys started to go missing, it means she wasn’t recruited for a role in all of this. She is all of this.’

Margaret grinned. ‘Fuck-a-doodle-do,’ she said.