A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel Read Free Page A

years.
    Murmurs from the press.
    Brody read out the detectives’ script: short sentences, written with precision by the detectives so there could be no misinterpretation.
    “The night before last, a murder took place in room 1944 of this hotel. The victim was shot twice in the back of the head with an MK23 pistol. Probably the pistol was sound suppressed, though we can’t be sure at present. The murder weapon was not left at the scene. The identity of the victim is still unknown, though we’re certain she’s not a hotel guest or member of staff. We’re running traces on her DNA and fingerprints in our national databases. We’ll know soon who she is. We have one suspect: the occupant of room 1944. An Englishman. Forty-five years old. Estimated height six feet, four inches. Athletic build, according to this hotel. Short-cropped, graying blond hair. One eye green, the other blue. We’ve got information packs for you all at the table by the door. In there are hotel scans of the suspect’s passport when he checked in and his photograph. Also a description of the clothes he was last seen wearing. You have our permission to replicate and print anything in the pack. We have an ongoing murder investigation. It’s complex. Motive is unclear. Details about victim and suspect are needed. Rest assured: the detectives in charge of the investigation have moved very fast. The city is on alert, and all East Coast police and sheriff’s departments are cooperating in the manhunt. Are there any questions?”
    The questions fired at him were all the same.
    “Who are the detectives in charge?” asked a reporter from CNN.
    Brody looked at the two cops at the back of the room. “Our best.”
    “And the suspect?” From NBC.
    Brody replied, “William Cochrane. We want to interview him. If anyone sees him, telephone the police. Don’t engage with him, talk to him, or assume he’s innocent. In fact, assume he’s extremely dangerous.”
     
    I t was mid-morning as I walked through central Philadelphia, having checked out of my hotel sixty minutes earlier. People around me were dashing for cover from the wind and rain, and vehicles with headlights on were splashing through puddles. I was wearing jeans, boots, and a Windbreaker, and had my small backpack slung over one shoulder. I wanted to blend in, but felt as if everyone was looking at me. When operating as a spy, I’d been on the run in many overseas locations. This was different. I had no place to run to. No place of safety to reach.
    At a newsstand, I bought a copy of the Washington Post . The woman’s body in room 1944 would have been discovered the previous day, I knew. The issue was how quickly the police would make my name public. I entered a small café near the entrance to the sprawling outdoor Italian Market, ordered a coffee, and sat in the corner of the room. Also here were a young couple browsing their iPads, a street vendor who was standing by the counter and chatting up a pretty waitress, and an old woman.
    The Post on the table, I turned to the classifieds section. My eyes locked on an ad that made no sense. Its heading was HONOR OUR FALLEN HERO. In the text below were only numbers.
7(9), 18(47), 2(3), 91(78), 45(102), 29(271), 77(59), 1(33), 531(84), 531(85), 4(26), 1(32), 11(84), 243(301).
    I glanced at the other occupants of the café. They were all still preoccupied with their drinks and activities. I pulled out the encyclopedia and a pen. I wanted the newspaper to make sense of all this shit, even if I knew that answers could make matters infinitely worse.
    My guess was that the numbers in the ad were page numbers, with the number in parentheses referring to a word on the page. I set to work, heart racing yet mind focused. Within two minutes, I knew my instinct about the code was probably correct. On page 7 in the encyclopedia, the ninth word was “I’ve.” I continued cross-referring the numbers in the ad with pages and words in the book.
    The code was