Hákon turned to look at Ansel, Etienne’s warning forefront in his mind as he studied the man, suddenly curious as to when he got the scar on his chin, how often MI5 sent him into the field.
“The way you talk about the Spurring Group,” he said.
“Hmm?”
Ansel took a sip of tea, returning Hákon’s look over the lip of the mug.
“It’s almost like you’re working for them – not just in contact, but active. Like you’re…”
“A Spurring Group asset?” Ansel nodded. “We’ve had our dealings, I won’t lie. And the money’s good.”
“So?” Hákon frowned, waiting for Ansel to say more.
“What’s that, mate?”
“Are you dealing with them now? Is this a Spurring Group op?”
Ansel smiled. “Drink your tea, mate. Let me worry about the bigger picture, eh?”
Hákon opened his mouth to speak, only to pause at the crackle of static on the radio. He put his tea down on the windowsill and studied the grounds outside as Ansel reached for the radio on the kitchen table.
“Away from the window, Constable,” Ansel said, before keying the transmit button. “This is Ansel. Report.”
“He’s here,” Hákon said.
Ansel shook his head. “It’s a postie, or the bin men, or something.”
Both men swapped a glance at the boom of a shotgun.
“Report,” Ansel said into the radio.
Hákon moved to one side of the window, scanning the open drive leading to the front door, revealing as little of his body as possible.
“Get away from the fucking window, Constable.” Ansel drew his pistol from the holster at his hip, waving Hákon to one side, reminding him how naked he felt without a gun.
“Boss…?”
Ansel held the radio to his mouth. “Go ahead, Mike.”
“Jones has gone quiet.”
“Jones?” Hákon said.
Ansel waved at him to be quiet, mouthing at the gate, before he asked the men in the stables to check in. Hákon resumed his watch over the grounds in front of the house, until the crack of single shots forced him to look towards the rear. Ansel approached the back window of the kitchen, ducking his head to look up onto the roof of the stables.
“Everyone needs to check in,” he said, keying the radio. “One at a time. Starting with…”
A shadow at the kitchen window caught Ansel’s attention, and he dropped to the floor, yelling for Hákon to do the same, just as the window shattered with a blast of shotgun pellets. A single pellet streaked past Hákon’s head as he ducked. He looked up as Cantrell peered in through the window, calmly breaking the shotgun barrel open, ejecting the empty shells and sliding two more into the breach.
“Morning, Owen,” Cantrell said, dipping his head in greeting. He caught Hákon’s eye, frowning as he recognised him, before spinning away as Ansel raised his pistol and fired.
Ansel slid his phone across the floor to Hákon. “Call the police,” he said. “It’s the top number in my contacts list. The command word is Rebel. Tell them that and they’ll send the cavalry.”
“What about Cantrell?”
“Let me worry about him.” Ansel duckwalked to the kitchen door. “Just keep your fucking head down.”
Hákon ducked beneath the windowsill and dialled. The operator on the other end confirmed that backup was on the way, ending the call with an estimated time of arrival of twenty minutes. Hákon lowered the phone, considering his next move as Ansel stalked around the inside of the house, firing the occasional shot and shattering windows. Cantrell prowled around the exterior.
Ansel’s phone rang before the lock screen was activated. Hákon answered it.
“Owen? What’s going on?”
The man’s voice was distant and distorted, as if the call was being scrambled through a series of filters.
“He’s here,” Hákon said, muffling his voice with his hand.
“Cantrell? Shit.” The man paused. “Owen?” he said. “You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Forget about Cantrell, for the minute. Get out. Get away. I need you to go to Sweden.”
“Sweden?”
“I’m sending the data packet. We’ve had contact with our friends there. Iceland is still haunting us, I’m afraid. There’s some loose ends that need tidying up. Confirm once you’ve seen the data.”
Hákon started to respond, but the line went dead. The beep of an incoming mail followed a second later, just as Ansel opened fire.
“Bastard must have a scanner or something,” he said, as he ducked back into the kitchen. “He knows we’ve got help coming. He’s buggered off.” Ansel walked over to Hákon, took his phone, and then helped Hákon to his feet.
“I think you had a mail,” Hákon said. He bent down for his walking stick, absently testing the weight in his hands as Ansel read his email.
“Huh.” Ansel stuffed his pistol into his holster, then held the phone in one hand while he scrolled through the email with the other. “New orders,” he said.
“From MI5?”
“Yeah.” Ansel looked up, catching Hákon’s eye before continuing. “Did you say your mob was in Sweden?”
“My commanding officer is.”
“Well, I tell you what. Come with me, and I’ll drop you off. Seems like I’m going north after all.” Ansel lowered his phone as he looked around the kitchen. He brushed shards of glass to one side with his foot, and then looked up at Hákon. “Give me a hand with the bodies, mate.” Ansel cursed as he headed for the door. “I’m going to need a new team.”
Chapter 17
GÄLLIVARE, SWEDEN
Etienne checked his phone at the hotel breakfast table, reading Evelyn’s text and smiling at the emoji she added to liven up the agreed updates. Once the decision had been made to use dogs to sledge into the mountains, Evelyn’s enthusiasm for the mission had doubled.
Mission.
Etienne struggled to classify it. Not quite search and rescue, and yet, more than one person would be rescued if they found Mats. The difficulty began, he mused, when the other operations – not least Hákon’s activity in England – merged to confuse the overall picture. He had told Hákon to be prepared to walk away, perhaps the lamest offer of support he had ever provided – words, when what the Icelander really needed was a team, such as Evelyn and Vitaly, on his side.
But, he thought, what about the bigger picture, as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. Etienne stood up to greet the man from Berglund’s photograph, hoping that Isak Ivarsson would shed some light on everything as he strode across the hotel dining room.
“Inspector Gagnon,” Ivarsson said, grasping Etienne’s hand. “Gina says good things about you.”
“I’m pleased,” Etienne said. “Is here all right?”
“This is fine.”
Ivarsson pulled out a chair and sat down, shrinking as he did so, giving Etienne the impression that the Swede’s legs were what gave him his height. Now, with his legs tucked under the table, Ivarsson took on a more unassuming look, which, together with his short brown hair and bland facial features – nothing prominent, everything in proportion – allowed him to melt into his surroundings. Etienne smiled as he considered just how suited the man was to clandestine work.
“You’re smiling, Inspector.”
“Yes, forgive me.” Etienne sat down. He poured two cups of coffee. “I was just thinking that you make a good spy.”
“Really?” Ivarsson nodded when Etienne asked if he took milk. “Is that what you think SÄPO does? Spy on people?”
“I must admit I don’t know what SÄPO does, only that you don’t work for them anymore.”
“This is true.” Ivarsson turned his chair to the side and crossed one long leg over the other. “Of course, there are so many different words for spying. You can observe, record, document – all these things. Then, in Swedish, you can spionera – to spy, the literal translation. I enjoyed being a spy for the
Swedish government. But I make more money spying for the private sector.” Ivarsson paused for a sip of coffee. “We have work in Canada, for a man of your talents.”
“My talents?” Etienne leaned back in his seat, curious to hear to what Ivarsson might know about him. “Such as?”
“Inspector Etienne Gagnon,” Ivarsson began. “I wouldn’t have agreed to meet without first taking the time to know with whom I am meeting. Gina’s word can only go so far. But let us recap. You currently find yourself in a difficult position, leading a fledgling police organisation, a political hot potato being bounced around Washington.” Ivarsson put his cup down on the saucer, gesturing with long, slender fingers as he talked. “And I admit, this is the part that puzzles me. Why Washington?”
“The Americans have provided a base.”
“Ah, yes the Logan.” Ivarsson nodded, brushing errant breakfast crumbs from the tablecloth. “Naturally, it all comes down to money, and the Americans are tired of footing the bill.”
“Some of them are,” Etienne said, thinking of Chief of Staff Aaron Barnes.
“But aside from that – if we forget about the money and focus on you. You, Inspector, are hungry. You are eager to rise up through the ranks, as demonstrated by your career. Three years with D Division in Manitoba, followed by two more years in F Division, Saskatchewan, and a curious stint as a Liaison Officer in Rome. Just the one year?”
“You’re very thorough,” Etienne said, avoiding the question.
“Yes,” Ivarsson said. “But there is more. You are driven not just by the need to succeed, but also to a certain degree by sibling, and, if I may suggest, paternal rivalry.” Ivarsson paused, gauging the expression on Etienne’s face before continuing. “Your father is a successful Commodity Trading Advisor. I think that’s right. A self-made man with an impressive background in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He saw combat, I believe?”
“He did,” Etienne said, knowing that Ivarsson didn’t just believe it, but that he probably had the details of every Gulf War combat sortie his father had ever flown.
“But there is no dishonour in living in the shadow of one’s father. None at all. My own father, for example…”
“Yes?”
“Well…” Ivarsson smiled. “Let’s stick with you, shall we?”
Slippery bugger, Etienne thought, making a mental note.
“Your sister, Mariève,” Ivarsson said, risking another smile. “Now there lies the true competition.”
“Mariève has her own career.”
“A successful one too. She chose the military, while you chose the Mounties.” Ivarsson tipped his head to one side. “Are you the adventurous type, Inspector? Or do you simply prefer law enforcement?”
“Both,” Etienne said, tiring of the exchange. “Let’s shift the focus from me to Sky Vault.” Etienne topped up Ivarsson’s coffee, resetting the conversation. “Who do you represent?”
“I can’t break confidentiality, Inspector. Surely you understand?”
“Of course, but whoever you’re working for knows enough for you not to flinch at the name Sky Vault.”
“Continue,” Ivarsson said, reaching for his coffee.”
“Sky Vault is the codename for a SÄPO operation. You didn’t react when I used it. So, you know what we’re talking about. And if you know, then your clients know, and they have an interest in the operation.”
“And you know this…?”
“Berglund,” Etienne said. “He brought me up to speed.”
“No,” Ivarsson said, with a shake of his head. “He has you started your engines, but he has you idling in the street. The motor is running, but you have no direction. He showed you the social media photos?”
“Gina showed me the photos. Berglund was more interested in the posts on Mats Lindström’s…”
“Fake accounts. Have you considered who might have created them?”
“I thought you might have the answer to that.”
“And maybe I do. But consider this, Inspector. What if all of this is a ruse? What if SÄPO – let’s just say, Berglund. What if Berglund created those accounts? What does he gain from that? Have you thought about that?”
“Berglund was the one who gave me your photo.”
“And then I turned up in Gällivare, just like that.” Ivarsson smiled. “Convenient.”
“Very.”
Etienne reached for his coffee, turning the cup on the saucer as he considered who was playing who, and just how far they intended to play the game.
“More questions,” Ivarsson said. He uncrossed his legs and rested his arms on the table. “Assume for a moment that my clients are interested in whatever data Sky Vault might have uncovered. What might they do to retrieve it?”
“Find Mats Lindström.”
“Yes. And?”
“Threaten him, his family.”
“His house was burgled,” Ivarsson said. “Twice.”
“Your clients?” Etienne paused, and then, “You?”
“Not me. Not my clients.”
“Why not?”
“Because, believe it or not, the information my clients stored in the Swedish Sky Solutions cloud was benign. Nothing incriminating. It was merely a convenient and secure means of sharing information – budgets and lists of wares. That kind of thing. Better than an email account – they are hacked all the time, so many back doors. It’s the same with mobile phones, and other solutions provided by companies who are compelled to bow down and share information the second a government accuses them of protecting terrorists, or traffickers. No, none of these solutions work. Unless…” Ivarsson smiled. “Unless they use a reputable company that has been vouched for by the very government, they are trying to hide from.”
“It was you,” Etienne said. “You knew SÄPO was using Sky Solutions.”
“In my last year at SÄPO…” Ivarsson picked up his coffee and leaned back in his seat. “I worked a few satellite operations. We used the cloud to share information, rather than go through the whole process of logging into the SÄPO secure servers. It was both laborious and sometimes dangerous. Like leaving breadcrumbs to be found by the very people we were observing. Sky Solutions uses a range of bland addresses to access the cloud. Even if we were to use a public computer, or an open Wi-Fi connection, all anyone would find in the browser history or activity logs, would be a few links to fast food and shopping sites. I was impressed by the service, and, naturally, when my talents were appropriated by other organisations, I suggested Swedish Sky Solutions as a convenient and covert means of storing data.”
“And the fact that SÄPO used it…”
“Made it unlikely that Sky Solutions would ever be required to break client confidentiality.” Ivarsson shrugged. “It’s simple, legal, and safe.”
“Like hiding a stolen car in a police parking lot.”
“Yes,” Ivarsson said, after a moment’s thought. “Exactly like that.”
“But then there’s a problem.”
“Yes?”
“The article comes out, and now SÄPO has a problem. They can’t sanction an official probe into the company, because they risk exposing their association with the same company.”
“Irrelevant.” Ivarsson waved his hand. “The article exposed them.”
“No,” Etienne said. “It merely suggested that the government was a client, sharing the same services as criminal organisations.”
“So? What’s the next step?”
“You can’t risk a public investigation, so you go in quietly, through the back door.”
“Mats Lindström.”
“Yes,” Etienne said. “He gets his own operation. It suits his personal family situation.”
“The tragic loss of Márjá’s parents.” Ivarsson nodded, repeating the word, “Tragic.”
“And it suits Berglund. He’s tasked with looking into the cloud, but he needs to do it far from prying eyes. But he needs to keep an eye on Mats…”
“Why?”
&nbs
p; “Because he knows there might be some sensitive information in the cloud.”
“You’re getting there, Inspector.”
Etienne paused, catching himself in full swing as he realised he was enjoying the sparring process. A little too much. It occurred to him that Ivarsson was the perfect spy, encouraging Etienne with a word here and there, providing just enough information to keep him going, driving him in a certain direction. Or misdirection, he thought, as he took a long breath.
“Inspector?”
“I’m thinking.”
“No,” Ivarsson said. “You’re stalling. Actually, I would go as far as to say that you are concerned you have said too much, to me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Has Gina not vouched for me?”
“I hardly know Gina.”
“And yet, you trust her. You have… What do you say?” Ivarsson patted his stomach. “A gut feeling? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Otherwise, you would not have left Trooper Odell with Gina.”
“Odell can handle herself.”
“Of course.” Ivarsson nodded. “I am actually sad that we are running out of time, and that I can’t tell you what I know of your Alaskan tracker. Another impressive, albeit young career. But I have to go soon.” Ivarsson shook his wrist free of his shirt cuff to check his watch. “I have other appointments. But I don’t want to leave on a cliffhanger. At least, not one of yours. Let me give you one of my own.”
“Such as?”
“Think back to what I said earlier. My clients do not upload sensitive material, regardless of what Berglund might tell you. At least, nothing that will cost them more than a few years in jail, or a relatively small economic setback. The government, however, and not just the Swedish government, uses the cloud in a very different way. It is an expedient and safe way to share information. Sometimes across agencies, providing access to certain files, receiving others. Now, I ask you, what happens when a man such as Mats Lindström – a caring, family man, with a strong moral compass… What happens when such a man discovers something unsavoury in those files?”
Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol) Page 13