Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol)

by Christoffer Petersen

  “He will face a dilemma.”

  “Correct. And?”

  “Look,” Etienne said. “We know the rest. We know what happened. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Because someone put Mats Lindström’s name forward for Polarpol?” Ivarsson smoothed another patch of crumbs onto the floor. “When did that happen?”

  “What?”

  “When was his name put forward? Was it before or after Iceland?”

  “Iceland?”

  “Yes, the so-called assassination attempt.” Ivarsson shrugged. “It might be that I’ve been in the game too long. I am perhaps a little jaded. But I would say it wasn’t an attempt when the target was eliminated. I would say that was a successful assassination. Now, let’s just assume that you received word about Mats Lindström – both his application and his disappearance, around the same time. More specifically, after this assassination.”

  Etienne held his breath, his focus fixed on Ivarsson.

  “Think about that,” Ivarsson said, as he pushed back his chair. He stood up, regaining his previous impressive, if a little slender, height. “And one more thing, Inspector. Ask yourself one more question.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Do you really think SÄPO has neither the resources nor motive to investigate every cabin in the mountains?”

  “You’re saying…”

  “Nothing, Inspector. I’m merely suggesting that while you focus on the criminal element, you might want to broaden your horizons, and factor in other, perhaps even foreign, actors into this little drama.”

  “Wait,” Etienne said, as Ivarsson started for the door. He stood up, stepping closer to Ivarsson, lowering his voice. “What about Gina? Can I trust her?”

  Ivarsson nodded. “Yes.”

  “And everyone else?”

  “I think I’ve said enough,” Ivarsson said. “Old loyalties, and all that. But perhaps it would be wise to trust the people you know. I find that is often the best advice. Thank you for the coffee, Inspector. I don’t expect we shall see each other again.”

  Ivarsson left Etienne standing in the middle of the dining room, his last words needling the Mountie’s mind.

  Chapter 18

  OUTSIDE LONDON, ENGLAND

  Byrne left the shotgun on top of the last man he shot, wondering why the man had left the safety of the roof. He pulled the Glock apart, scattering the parts over the drive before ducking beneath the trees behind the stables and jogging to the low fence he and Edith used to lean against when slipping away from her parents for a quiet moment – it had a good view of the back of the house. Byrne stopped as he reached it, turning for that last look, knowing that he hadn’t finished the job, but surprisingly pleased that he had walked away.

  “I made my point,” he said, his voice quiet in the cold cushion of air trapped beneath the trees. Seeing the Icelander had bothered him, but only confirmed what he knew to be true, that the Spurring Group were pulling out all the stops, even to the point of calling in regular police. Each successive step suggested that they were closer and closer to going public, making it more difficult for Byrne, and yet revealing something far more interesting and useful: they were nervous.

  Byrne took one last look at Edith Teal’s childhood home, preserving the memory, the feel of the rough wood of the fence against his palm, the dark red berries of autumn, still clinging to the spindly branches of the bushes at the edge of the wood, and the last clouds of gun smoke dispersing.

  “Okay, maybe not the gun smoke, but…”

  He turned away, checking his watch as he ran, calculating the time it would take for the police to respond, and, more importantly, how wide a net they would cast to try and catch him.

  Byrne pressed the winder to start the stopwatch, setting it to vibrate after ten minutes. By that time he should be at the main road, ready to direct Bess to his location. Byrne picked up the pace.

  Again, the Icelander… Byrne pushed himself hard through woods, allowing himself but brief moments to contemplate the significance of Hákon Sigurðsson teaming up with a Spurring Group agent. Ansel’s presence was expected. Byrne would have been disappointed if he hadn’t seen him. But the Icelander… The Spurring Group were devious.

  And I should know, he thought, as he slowed in an open part of the wood. The hedgerows were thick, and, in Byrne’s opinion, could easily hide a small tactical unit. He checked his watch. If they had more to time and unlimited resources.

  He pushed on.

  The Spurring Group had a long reach, with even longer fingers, burrowing into national and international organisations, governments, and even the underworld. No matter how important it was for Byrne to exact summary justice on the Icelander, the brief interaction they had had, when Byrne held a pistol to the head of the constable’s daughter, he could see that the man was genuine. If Ansel was using Sigurðsson, it was with the sparest of details.

  The bastard will just have to figure that out by himself.

  It was still there – the untempered hatred and need for revenge. But still, that grudging respect that it wasn’t entirely the Icelander’s fault.

  The thought gave Byrne pause, tripping him over a concealed root.

  He stopped, crouched, then scanned his surroundings, cursing himself for letting his thoughts run away with him, for dropping his guard.

  They deserve to catch me, he thought.

  Byrne gave it a full minute, then half a minute more, before resuming his run towards the road. His watch vibrated on his wrist within twenty metres of the bank leading to the edge of the road, slowing Byrne to another stop. He dropped to a prone position a few metres from the edge of the wood, scanning the traffic, curious as the traffic heading west started to slow, while the gaps between the cars heading east grew longer and longer.

  Roadblock.

  Byrne pulled his phone out of his pocket, and sent a short text to Bess, adding another five miles to the east to their rendezvous.

  Another hour, he thought.

  He picked himself up, brushed leaf litter and mud from his knees, then ducked back, deeper into the forest, heading east.

  Bess had warned him, of course, reminding him what her contact in the Metropolitan Police had said, that although no one knew Byrne’s name or why he was wanted, his photo had been distributed widely among the police.

  “Which is good for us,” she had said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve seen the photo. It’s at least five years old, back when you were blond.”

  “That’s the best they have?”

  “It’s the only one they have. I can’t even remember why the Spurring Group needed one.”

  “Insurance,” Byrne had said. “For times like these.”

  Times like these.

  Another thought, another grim smile.

  Byrne felt the change in the terrain beneath his feet. As the temperature rose the mud softened and the pools of thick ice grew mushy, splashing the cuffs of Byrne’s trousers, covering his boots.

  He slowed at the sound of people approaching. Byrne pulled a bright dog lead out of his jacket pocket, draped it around his neck, letting the ends fall flat against his chest. He pulled out a green plastic bag, knotted it, and then held it loosely as a middle-aged couple approached. Byrne waved, shared a quick comment about the weather, and then turned to whistle.

  “Just a whippet,” he said, as the couple looked for a dog. “He won’t bother you.”

  Byrne made his excuses, whistling once more as he walked on. He checked his watch once the couple were out of sight, stuffed the lead and the bag back into his pocket, and started to run.

  The dog walker disguise had been Bess’ idea, something she had managed to get through the red mist that clouded Byrne’s judgement.

  “This isn’t some last stand,” she had said. “What happens if you die?”

  “It ends.”

  “Fine, it ends. But what if they take you alive? Think about that. They’ll know you had help,
and they’ll come looking for me. God knows they’ve been trying hard enough, but if they get a hold of you…”

  “They won’t.”

  “But if they did, then I’m next.”

  Byrne remembered Bess’ sigh, the shake of her head, even the pout on her lips. It was fake, of course, but it was Bess’ words, not her looks, that had the greatest effect.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he had said.

  “You’re damn right, you won’t. I’m only letting you go so I can figure out the next step.”

  “The next step?”

  “You can’t keep running, Byrne. Not forever. While you have your fun…” She held up her hand. “I understand why you have to do it. But while you’re proving a point, I’m going to check out a few leads.”

  “You’ll be careful.”

  “More careful than you, that’s for sure.”

  And that was how they had left it – Byrne with a fluorescent dog lead tucked in the same pocket as the spare magazines for the Glock, and Bess with a suitably vague promise of planning for their future.

  And there she is.

  Byrne slowed as he reached a path leading to a small parking area, the eastern entrance to the wood. He counted three cars, and a white van parked beside Bess’ Countryman. Byrne slowed to a walk, opening the kissing gate into the car park, and letting it close with a dull clap of wood.

  It wasn’t necessary.

  Bess had already seen him.

  “Get in the van,” she said, as soon as he reached her car. Followed by, “Trust me.”

  Byrne tugged the lead from his pocket and coiled it into Bess’ palm. “It was a good idea.”

  Bess allowed Byrne a brief smile before nodding once more at the van. The side door opened from the inside, giving Byrne a moment’s pause, until Bess took his hand.

  “You really have to trust me.”

  Byrne took a moment, as if considering his options, and then climbed into the van.

  “Into the box,” hissed an older black woman once he was inside.

  “You’re joking?”

  “She’s not joking, Byrne. Just get in the box.”

  “That’s not a box, Bess,” Byrne said, as the woman pulled back an oily canvas tarpaulin. “It’s a fucking coffin.”

  “There’s blankets inside.”

  “I’m going to sleep in there?”

  “You can do whatever you want, but I suggest listening to this,” Bess said, pressing an old MP3 player with earbuds coiled around it into Byrne’s hand. “It explains everything. Just get in.”

  “Bess,” Byrne said. Another pause.

  “Yes?”

  “Will I see you again?”

  Bess bit her bottom lip, nodding, and then whispering, “Probably. I hope so.”

  “Good enough,” he said.

  Byrne took a last look at Bess, glanced at the woman in the van, and then climbed into the box.

  “The woman’s name is Marion.” Bess’ voice crackled through the earbuds once Byrne fumbled for the play button in the dark. “You can trust her as far as the ferry. After that, when you get to the other side of the channel, give her the money – there’s an envelope with her name on it in the box. Then, ditch the van. Buy another one. You’ll be in Rotterdam. It’s about thirty hours to Gällivare – that’s Sweden.”

  Sweden?

  Byrne pressed the earbuds further into his ears.

  “…wondering what’s in Sweden? You’re not the only one. Ansel will be thinking the same thing. That’s where he’s headed. Yes, Byrne, I’ve been busy, but you know what? I want to spend the money we put aside, and I can’t do that in the UK. No, we’re not moving to Sweden.”

  She said ‘we’, Byrne thought. What is she thinking?

  “…chance to sort all this out – finally, well, that means going to Sweden. I took a risk and reached out a little further via my contact at the Met – I think we can trust him. Anyway, he gave me the name of an ex-Swedish security guy. I mean, he’s not an ex-Swede, but you know what I mean. His name is Ivarsson. He’ll be expecting you in Gällivare.”

  Byrne paused the recording, as the vibration in the floor of the van dulled.

  Traffic. Relax. She’s not stopping.

  He waited ten minutes, just to be sure, then clicked play on the MP3.

  “Honestly, I don’t know whose side Ivarsson is on, but the word is that this has something to do with Iceland, and that proof of the British government’s involvement in the hit on Adrian Seabrooke might be in Gällivare. Somewhere up there, anyway. He says he can fill you in when you arrive.”

  Bess stopped talking. Byrne listened to her breathing in the background as the recording continued. She started and stopped three sentences before continuing.

  “There’s a chance, that if this works, you’ll have information we can use, something to buy off the Spurring Group. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably cursing in the darkness there.”

  Byrne shook his head as he realised how well Elizabeth Park knew him.

  “But if you just hear me out…”

  I don’t have much choice, Bess.

  “…then you’ll maybe understand that this is the best plan. It’s the only plan, Byrne. We use the intel to buy our way out of trouble, and then, with the money from the Iceland job, we disappear. It just means you have to put things behind you. Please, Byrne, you have to…”

  Byrne paused the recording. The air inside the box was stuffy, but he took a deep breath anyway. He pushed play.

  “…try. For Edie, and for me. If you think you can do that, then you’ll know where to find me, once it’s done. The first place we met. That’s where’ll I’ll be – everyday at four o’clock for seven days, starting tomorrow.” The recording continued for another fifteen seconds, with little more than static, Bess’ breathing, and then, “You have to live, Byrne. Do what you have to do for Edie, but you have to live for me.”

  Byrne rewound the last five seconds.

  “…you have to live for me.”

  Edie’s gone.

  Byrne tugged the earbuds out of his ears. He pressed his hand to his face, took another deep breath of foul air, then wiped his eyes.

  “Jesus,” he breathed.

  He took another moment, more breaths of box-tainted air, then rewound the recording to the beginning, stuffed the earbuds back in his ears, and started again.

  “The woman’s name is Marion…”

  Chapter 19

  KEBNEKAISE, SWEDEN

  The toboggan sled jerked forward as Evelyn called for the dogs to Hike! casting Etienne into a more nostalgic frame of mind, pushing Ivarsson’s words to the back of his mind, at least for the first hundred metres, as Evelyn steered her team of dogs with soft words of encouragement, and a heavy foot on the snowmobile track chained between the runners each time she needed to brake. Gina’s team loped in front, slowing through the patches of heavier, wet snow, before speeding up on the trails where the wind had leached the snow of moisture and the paws and runners of previous teams had packed the trail hard. Etienne, like many of his colleagues, had weathered all manner of jokes, playing to the stereotypes of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, as portrayed in dime novels and movies, but before Sweden he had yet to ride in a sled, let alone drive a team of dogs.

  Dogs had never really been on Etienne’s radar, perhaps because his mother, until her dying days, had been fastidious about dust and mess in general. After just an hour in the sled, Etienne was already liberally coated in dog hair, having helped harness the dogs to the ganglines. Dogs shed too much to be a part of the Gagnon family, even when they were at home, the Gagnons preferred the challenge of conversation and strategy games, both lasting long into the night, neither of which would accommodate the walking of a dog, or the feeding of a cat. It would require a complete shift of mindset, and each of the Gagnons – the four of them when his mother, Nancy, had been alive, believed they were too busy for pets. Evelyn, Etienne mused, was another
matter.

  He turned in the sled, leaning to one side to better see the Alaskan State Trooper standing on the runners behind him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Etienne said. “Just checking you’re still there.”

  “You want to drive?”

  “No. Really. Just checking.”

  Yakutat, Evelyn’s place of birth, was on the coast, looking out onto Prince William Sound. Etienne didn’t know if the village had a history of dog sledding. In fact, he knew next to nothing about Evelyn’s personal background, only her police career, and the skills and experience she brought to Polarpol.

  I have to get to know my team, he thought, deciding that this could be the time, only to have Evelyn disturb his train of thought, voicing her concerns about Hákon.

  “He’s on his own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without backup?”

  “I can’t help him, Evelyn. At least, not in the way I’d like to.”

  “Okay.” Evelyn took a breath. “And Ivarsson? Run it by me again,” she said, her breath misting in the air in front of her face.

  “He suggested,” Etienne said, “that…”

  “SÄPO knows where Mats is. Yeah, I’m struggling with that.”

  “What part?”

  “That it’s a setup.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “It was implied.” Evelyn paused to give another command to the team, slowing them as Gina’s team and sled dropped down the embankment and onto the lake. She fell quiet as her team followed, concentrating, looking at the ice ahead of the team, before settling back into her relaxed stance on the runners. The sound from the runners beneath the sled changed from a shush across the snow to a jarring grate of metal skins over the ice. “She said it’s solid from here almost to the mountains. We’ll get there faster if we cut across the lake.”

  “I trust you,” Etienne said.

  “Really? I wouldn’t.” Evelyn grinned as Etienne turned to look at her. “I’m kidding,” she said, slapping his shoulder with the tip of her heavy, padded mushing gauntlets. “Tell me again how this is a setup, that SÄPO is using us, and we’re all going to die a horrible death.”