“Right.” Ansel grinned. “So you’ll give me?”
“A week.”
“That’s plenty.” Ansel gestured at Hákon’s empty glass. “Another drink?”
Hákon watched Ansel as he walked to the bar. He had probably had Hákon under surveillance from the moment he landed at Euston Airport. Hákon would be the first to admit that he tended to stand out in a crowd, but according to Ansel, that was exactly what the MI5 man wanted. But what amused Hákon most, was the fact that he didn’t mind. In fact, it was exactly what he wanted.
Chapter 3
LONDON, ENGLAND
Byrne Cantrell tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the rusting Ford Mondeo, perhaps the most nondescript car he had ever driven. The cobbled street leading to the lockups built into the bridge arches beneath the train tracks was quiet, disturbed only by a thin wind tumbling trash past Byrne’s car with stunted gusts. Even the wind, it seemed, lacked enthusiasm, blowing the empty paper cups more as an afterthought, than with any real sense of purpose. Byrne watched the cups for a moment, then flicked his gaze back to the street, chiding himself for momentarily dropping his guard.
But it only takes a moment, he thought, as he considered his next move.
His contact, Simon Partridge, or Smug Simon to those unfortunate enough to know him, was way down Byrne’s list of people he could trust, but perfectly positioned as a broker who could acquire things, and he knew it. Hence the name. The fact that Byrne’s name was high on a list of most wanted meant he needed the likes of Smug Simon. He gripped the wheel as the thought grated, considered his options, and then got out of the car. Byrne shut the door quietly, then walked along the cobbles to the end of the street, avoiding the trash, and turning his collar up against the wind. He knocked on the door a few moments later, just as the streetlights turned on, flickering as the winter dusk turned into night.
Byrne took a step back as a young man, still in his teens, opened the door a crack, then wider as Simon told him to hurry up and let the bastard in. Byrne pushed past the young man, keeping his back to the door as he stepped to one side. The door closed with a creak, and the young man locked it.
“You’re looking a bit rough there, Cantrell.”
Byrne nodded at the big man sitting behind the desk and walked towards him. “Simon,” he said, with a dip of his chin.
“I heard you was dead.”
Byrne pressed the tips of his fingers into his jacket, just below his collarbone. “It wasn’t too deep.” The image of a rusty mirror and a bloody knife below decks on a fishing trawler flashed into Byrne’s mind. He forced himself to focus as Simon gestured at the chair in front of the desk, saving the thought for later. Of course, the image was nothing, it was the associated pain that was important. Pain kept Byrne alive, and so long as he was alive, then so was Edie. As clichéd as it was, Byrne latched onto that thought, using it to preserve the memory of his dead wife, fuelling his movements and each step on his journey of revenge. There was an Icelander somewhere along the way, but with each step there was a hurdle. Which is why I’m here, eating shit in front of Smug Simon. Byrne ran his hand through his hair, then settled in his seat, noting the black man at the back of the arched lockup, the teenager blocking the door behind him, and the ragged hole and splinters on his side of the desk, revealing the position of Smug Simon’s sawn-off shotgun.
Simon flattened his lips in one of his trademark grins as he noticed the direction of Byrne’s gaze. “I should have that fixed,” he said.
“Not on my account.” Byrne resisted the impulse to move to one side, and focused on Simon’s face, trying to get a read, wondering which way the exchange was going to go.
“Funny you should say that,” Simon said.
“Say what?”
“Account. As in opening one. I don’t remember you ever coming down here before, so you’ll be a new customer.”
“We’ve known each other for seven years, Simon.”
“While that’s true, I won’t deny, it’s not technically accurate now, is it?”
“Because we’ve never done business?”
“Never done business, and never have you sent any work my way.” Simon smoothed his pudgy fingers along the edge of the desk. “Look at you, wearing that leather jacket, hair all trim – fashionably long. A bit of stubble – just enough to drive the ladies wild, until you start chafing their chins with spontaneous passion…”
“Simon…”
“No, mate, this is the preamble. You don’t want to stop it. This is where we put grievances to one side, and start again, from scratch. No prejudices. Just business.”
“You don’t like the way I look?”
“No, I don’t like the way you look. But I’m going to put that behind me. I’m going to ignore the way people with that look have ignored me in the past.”
Byrne sighed. “This preamble…”
“Yes?”
“Is it going to take all night?”
“It’ll take as long as I want.”
“Well,” Byrne said, leaning forward. “All I want is a safe place to crash for a few days. Somewhere off the grid. I need a new car, and I need a gun.”
“My preamble…”
Byrne slapped his hand on the table. “Fuck your preamble, Simon. Give me a flat, a car, and a gun, and no more of this bullshit.” He leaned to one side to make eye contact with the black man standing behind Simon, the one reaching inside his jacket, fingering what Byrne guessed was the grip of a Glock pistol, something of a speciality item in Smug Simon’s catalogue of criminal wares. “Or,” he said, turning back to Simon. “You can slide your greasy hand under the table and pull the fucking trigger.”
“I could do that,” Simon said.
“And you’d get a handful of loose change for your efforts.” Byrne snorted. “You think I’ve got the money on me?”
“I know you haven’t. But if you had just let me finish my preamble, you would have guessed that you’re worth more than petty cash.” Simon raised his eyebrows as the teenager crossed his arms and looped a thin cord around Byrne’s neck, pulling it tight as he pulled Byrne out of his seat. “A lot more.”
Finally.
Even as the cord dug into Byrne’s neck, squeezing his trachea, he felt a wash of calm flood into his body. The negotiations were over – finally. Simon’s loyalties had been revealed, and if Edie had been there, Byrne would have heard her tell him: I told you so.
I know, he thought, as he let the teen pull him out of his chair. He might have said more if she had been there, but Edie was the talkative one, whereas Byrne preferred to let his actions speak for him.
Byrne dropped his hand to his belt, hooked his finger through the loop of the bear claw knife sheathed inside the waistband of his jeans, and pulled it out. He slashed at the teenager’s leg, doing little more than distracting him, but just enough to shift his grip, giving Byrne a glance at his right hand. Byrne reached up and drew the short, curved blade across the teenager’s knuckles. He dropped onto his knees as the teen let go of him, then rolled flat onto his side, just as Simon reached under the desk, discharging both barrels, severing the teen at the waist.
The black man at the rear pulled the Glock from his jacket, jerking the trigger as he fired, one hand curled around the grip of the pistol, the other flailing, as if he was trying to keep his balance. Byrne rolled back in front of the desk, grabbing a fistful of computer cables, then ripping the monitor and keyboard off the desk. He stood, twirling the cables, before releasing them, flinging the monitor at the man with the gun, running at him as the computer screen slapped into his chest.
Simon, hips welded between the arms of his chair, lunged at Byrne, fingers grasping at Byrne’s jacket. Byrne backhanded him in the face on his way to the gunman, grabbing the pistol by the barrel, twisting it to one side as the man fired three more shots, all of which slapped into Simon’s stomach, like wet punches aimed at an overripe pumpkin. The man let go of the pistol as Byrne twisted his wrist. A
slap to the side of the man’s head put him on his knees. Byrne jabbed the pistol into the man’s head, pulling the trigger the second he felt the muzzle thud into his skull.
The yellow ceiling lights lit the gun smoke like thin smog, casting an eerie pall about the scene, turning the white men’s skin a sickly hue of vomit. Byrne paused, listening for sounds beyond Simon’s sucking and wheezing, or the splutter of blood bubbling out of the teenager’s mouth. Byrne shot Simon in the head then crouched to check the black man’s pockets, stuffing two more magazines for the Glock into his jacket, before stuffing the pistol into the waistband of his jeans. A quick search of the drawers in Simon’s desk rewarded Byrne with a box of shotgun shells for the sawn-off he unhooked from its desk mount, and two sets of car keys. Byrne took the one with the BMW fob, tipped the shells into his pocket, and pinched the sawn-off under his arm. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans, and started dialling as he walked to the door.
“It’s no good, Bess,” he said, catching his breath as he stepped out onto the street. “Simon was going to sell me out.”
“I did try to tell you.”
Byrne paused, allowing himself a cautious smile at the sound of Elizabeth Park’s soft-spoken reprimand. He tried to imagine where she might be – a guessing game, to occupy his brain, as it was Byrne who told her she shouldn’t tell him. Not ever.
“Yes, you did.”
He tuned into what sounded like cars in the background – regular, spaced. A motorway, perhaps?
“So what next?” Bess asked.
“Well…” Byrne clicked the BMW fob, turning his head at the beep and flash of lights from a BMW X5, parked on the kerb beneath the bridge. “I have new wheels. I have two guns, but still nowhere to sleep. Two out of three isn’t bad.”
“You can always…”
“No,” he said. “Not an option.”
“Byrne, listen. You have to stop this. You need to get out of the country.”
“I tried that. It didn’t work.”
“But Edie wouldn’t want this.”
“Edie’s gone, Bess. But I can’t give up on her. I need to be here, in England, just a little while longer. Humour me, will you?”
“Always,” Bess said, before pausing. “You know that.”
Byrne tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he got into the BMW. He tossed the shotgun into the passenger footwell, then listened, waiting for Bess to speak, curious if she would. The sound of her breathing, like the sound of soft surf on the beach, gave him a moment of calm. Bess breathing – it meant she was alive.
“Bess?”
“I’m still here.”
“You don’t have to keep helping me.”
“Don’t…”
“You have the money.” Byrne switched the phone to his other ear. “With your new identity…”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“And I appreciate that. But this is my fight, for Edie.”
“She was my friend too, Byrne.”
“I know.” Byrne looked up at the sound of approaching sirens. He caught the flicker of blue emergency lights in the windows of a high rise on the other side of the bridge. Byrne started the car.
“Byrne?”
“It’s okay. It’s the police. I should be going.”
“You need to rest.”
“When I get around to it.”
“Byrne…” Another pause. “Come to my place.”
“No.”
“You can rest. It’s safe here.”
“And the minute I get there, it’s no longer safe, Bess. You know that.”
“I’m willing to take that chance. Let me take that chance.”
Byrne held the phone to his chest. He rubbed his eye. The sirens were closer now.
“You can trust me, Byrne,” Bess said.
“I know.”
Byrne caught the first flash of light in the rear-view mirror. He put the BMW into gear, leaving the lights off as he rolled forward, off the kerb, into the street, and on to the other side of the bridge.
“I’ll call, you,” he said, accelerating away from the lockup. “Stay safe.”
Byrne ended the call and slipped the phone inside his jacket pocket. He frowned at a spot of blood on the back of his hand, wondering idly whose it was, before he settled into the driving seat, adjusted it for a long journey, and then fiddled with the radio. Byrne flicked through the stations, avoiding music and inane chatter, looking for talk radio, something to keep him awake through the night.
One more night, he thought. And one more after that.
Sleep would have to wait.
Chapter 4
GÄLLIVARE, SWEDEN
Etienne changed flights in Stockholm, collecting his notes and those on his tablet in a canvas satchel, before grabbing his overnight bag from the overhead locker. He waited for the other passengers to disembark, then helped an older passenger with his bags, carrying the man’s backpack off the aircraft and into the terminal.
“This really is quite heavy,” Etienne said, as they waited in line to show their passports. “Have you considered a smaller suitcase with wheels?”
“Sure,” the man said. “But they are conversation killers.”
“What’s that?”
“Would you have helped me with my bags if I had one of those light and fancy things with wheels?”
“Well…”
“Of course, you might have, but this pack is my conversation starter. You say it’s heavy, I reply with the reason I carry it, which makes you curious, and away we go.”
Etienne laughed as they nudged along the line to the passport desk. “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”
“You better believe it. The only thing that would improve the conversation is if you were say five years younger and of the opposite sex.”
“What?”
“Like her,” the man said, with a nod to a young woman standing beside a Swedish police officer, to one side of the passport control. Her uniform was lighter than the dark blue, almost black, trousers and jacket worn by her Swedish counterpart. The woman’s broad-brimmed campaign hat hid all but a few loose strands of black hair, and cast a shadow across her tanned face, protecting her from the glare of the terminal lights. But the sparkle in her eyes shone through the shadow as she smiled at Etienne.
“I tell you what,” Etienne said, with a nod to the woman in uniform. “How about I ask her to join us and we can both escort you through to baggage reclaim?”
“She’s wearing a sling…”
“She is indeed.” Etienne held out his hand to greet the woman as she walked over to join them. “Evelyn,” he said, gripping her hand. “How’s the arm?”
“It’s fine,” she said. “The doctor said I could use the sling when travelling – resting my arm when it’s not in use.” She moved to peel the sling from her shoulder. “I can take it off.”
“Keep it for now.” Etienne turned to the passenger, and said, “Sir, I’d like you to meet Alaska State Trooper, Evelyn Odell.”
“I like your hat,” the man said, as he shook Evelyn’s hand.
“Thank you.”
“And your trousers – the yellow piping… It reminds me of…”
“Mounties,” Evelyn said. She let go of the man’s hand and gestured at Etienne. “I don’t know if you’ve met, but this is Inspector Gagnon of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.” Evelyn winked at Etienne, before adding, “A real Mountie.”
“Is this a police convention?” the man asked.
“Sort of,” Etienne said, steering the man towards the passport desk. He nodded at the Swedish police officer, presented his passport, and then walked on the right-hand side of the old man as Evelyn matched their pace on the man’s left. “We have a connecting flight,” Etienne said, as they reached the baggage reclaim area. He waved a passenger assistant over and handed the man over to her care. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir.”
“The pleasure was mine,” the man said.
He glanced at Evelyn and was rewarded with a tip of her hat. “Safe journey, wherever you’re headed.”
“North,” Etienne said.
The man nodded. “Of course.”
Etienne shook the man’s hand, adjusted the strap of his overnight bag, and then followed Evelyn back into the departures lounge.
“The uniform is a nice touch,” he said, as Evelyn guided him to their gate.
“I’m on duty,” she said. “Although, it feels weird without my utility belt.”
“Lighter on the hips, eh?”
“Something like that.”
They found seats at the gate. Evelyn removed her daypack as she sat down, then fiddled her arm out of the sling. She found a packet of moose jerky in her pack and shared it with Etienne.
“They told me to ask for Gina Lång when we arrive in Gällivare,” she said, pulling her laptop out of her pack.
“I thought we were meeting a guy called Berglund?” Etienne pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his list of contacts. “Jöns Berglund. He’s my contact.”
“He’s with SÄPO.” Evelyn typed her password into her laptop, then opened the first of three documents on her desktop. “This is what the local police in Gällivare sent me.”
Etienne frowned as he started to read. “This is a police investigation.”
“The translated version. I had to use Google for a few words they forgot, but yes, this is Gina Lång’s case.”
“She’s investigating Mats Lindström’s disappearance?”
“No,” Evelyn said. “She’s investigating his death – no body. At least not yet.”
“But Berglund told me that Lindström is active on social media.”
Evelyn opened the second document. “Gina’s on it.”
“Then what’s SÄPO’s interest?”
“SÄPO is state security.”
“Yes. And?”
“Wait a second.” Evelyn opened the third document, scrolling past the photo of Mats Lindström, past his career accomplishments to a note at the bottom of the page. “Lindström’s SÄPO personnel file – he works for them – is still open, like he’s still active.”
Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol) Page 3