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

by Christoffer Petersen

  “What’s that?”

  Etienne tuned back into the conversation, taking his cue from Evelyn as she suggested they sit at the table. Mats took his pistol out of his pocket as he sat down, sliding it onto the table, close to Evelyn.

  “I thought about them every day,” Mats said. “Every second. I can’t imagine what they’ve been through.”

  “Well,” Evelyn said. “I won’t sugar coat it. Márjá’s pretty pissed.”

  “Pissed?”

  “Mad. She’s not going to forgive you – at least not for a while.”

  “But they are safe?”

  “Yes,” Evelyn said. “Filippa too.”

  “Filippa,” Mats said with a sigh, as if it was the first time he realised just how many people he had hurt. “It was the only option. I had no choice.”

  “Mats,” Etienne said, leaning forward. “We can worry about some things later, but if we prioritise things, we might be able to make a better plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “For bringing you home,” Evelyn said.

  “But before that.” Etienne paused, waiting until he had Mats’ attention and his initial reaction to going home had subsided. “I understand you have data in your possession…”

  “I have the USBs. If that’s what you mean?”

  “It is.” Etienne glanced at Evelyn, wondering if it was just him, or did she also get the impression they were dealing with a child. Perhaps a month alone in a cabin in winter would do that to a man, he mused. Added to which Mats was dealing with an overwhelming tonnage of guilt at leaving his family, and the fear of losing them if he didn’t. Evelyn returned his look, nodding, ever so slightly, for Etienne to continue. “The data you intercepted,” he said, smiling as Mats looked up. “It’s sensitive, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Criminal?”

  “Very.”

  “But…” Etienne waited, drawing Mats closer with his silence.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not criminals,” he said, remembering what Ivarsson said about the relatively benign data his clients uploaded to the cloud. “I mean the criminal data…”

  “I know what you mean, Inspector. And no, the criminal data didn’t come from…” Mats stopped speaking. His eyes twitched as he turned his head, looking at his gun.

  “Mats?” Etienne said. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know who you are,” he said, clasping his hands to stop them shaking. He looked at his gun again, lunging for it, only to slam his elbows on the table as Evelyn grabbed the pistol and slid off the bench. “Who the hell are you?”

  “We told you,” Etienne said, with a nod at Evelyn. She held the pistol at her side, stepping back, out of Mats’ reach. “Were with Polarpol. You remember? We’re a polar police force, kind of like Interpol. You applied to join us.”

  “Polarpol? No.” Mats shook his head. “I didn’t apply for anything.”

  “Shit,” Evelyn said. “That confirms it.”

  “Yep,” Etienne said, leaning back against the bench. “We’ve been played.”

  Evelyn checked the pistol, sliding the magazine out to check the number of bullets. “Do you have any more?” she asked.

  “Bullets?”

  “Yes.”

  Mats pointed at a shelf by the door. “Up there. Two magazines. One is half empty.” He watched Evelyn walk to the shelf, then turned back to Etienne. “You said I applied to something. I didn’t. What’s going on? Why are you here?”

  “Good questions, but tricky answers.” Etienne took a breath, nodding at Evelyn who pointed outside. He waited until she was gone, before turning back to Mats. “Evelyn said we’ve been set up. If she’s right, that means there has to be some connection between you and us, and I don’t mean a fake application to join Polarpol. I need to know what data you found. And,” Etienne said, tapping the table to focus Mats’ attention. “You’re going to have to take a leap of faith here. You’re going to have to trust us.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Okay, how about this? Notice I haven’t asked you where the USBs are yet? I’m not going to. Not right now. But let’s get back to that if the situation develops. Are you with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, if I tell you what I think is in the data you found during your work on Sky Vault…”

  “You know about Sky Vault?”

  “Yes, Mats. That’s why I’m here, well… That’s kind of why I’m here. But a man called Ivarsson.”

  “Yes?” Mats leaned in to the table.

  “You know him?”

  Mats nodded.

  “He suggested there might be some information on your USBs, intel that links governments with something that happened in Iceland.” Etienne paused. “Is he right?”

  Mats swallowed, then, a brief dip of the head.

  “Okay, then if that’s the case…”

  Etienne turned his head, looking at the stove, distracted by the sudden sound of snapping.

  “It’s not the kindling,” Mats said. “My eyesight is useless, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears.” He gripped the side of the table as Evelyn burst through the cabin door.

  “Gunfire,” she said. “Down in the valley. Gina’s in trouble.”

  Chapter 24

  KEBNEKAISE, SWEDEN

  A pistol and a radio. Byrne laughed when he thought about the special equipment Ivarsson had made available to him. It was like a Bond film reboot, except for the fact that Bond films tended to be shot in exotic locations. If it was night there would be neon, if there was snow it would be in the alps, with sunshine licking the chalet roofs or reflecting off the steel and glass exterior of a plush mountaintop retreat. None of that for me, he thought, as Ivarsson ground the gears of a rather old and oversized Ford, cursing it along the winter road leading into the mountains. No, I get pitch black and minus twenty. What was it Bess said about going South? Did she say it? Should we… Byrne looked up as Ivarsson jerked the gearstick into a lower gear and accelerated.

  “What’s going on?” Byrne turned his seat for a quick look at the trailer with the snowmobile bouncing along the road behind them, then focused on the headlights of the car approaching them. “Ivarsson?”

  “You wanted to know just how everything meshes together?”

  “Well, I have a pretty good idea,” Byrne said. He yanked on his seat belt, tightening it, then curled one hand into the handrail above the passenger door, while gripping the seat with the other. “I’m not sure this is what I had in mind.”

  “Maybe not,” Ivarsson said. “But this man.” He pointed through the windscreen at the black SUV heading towards them. “He is the source.”

  “Fine, but could we just…”

  Byrne tried to relax, in anticipation of the head-on-collision Ivarsson was initiating. It struck Byrne, in the seconds before the crash, that if there was one thing that bothered him more than anything else, it was not being in control. He thought of Bess’ recording on the USB tucked into the inside pocket of his snowsuit. She was the one who put him in touch with Isak Ivarsson. She neglected to mention that he was out of his mind. Byrne turned to look at the Swede, then at his seat belt. He grabbed it, yanked it tighter, and then closed his eyes before the crash.

  The old Ford might have been past its prime, but there was a reason for that – it had been built to last. The SUV crumpled under the impact, while the big Ford seemed to bounce, shuddering to a stop in the middle of the road, while the SUV rolled backwards, steam hissing out of the front as it whimpered to a stop.

  Ivarsson cursed as he fumbled with his belt, then cranked open the driver’s door, leaping down to the snow and marching towards the SUV. Byrne followed at a cautious distance, his hand curled around the grip of the Glock G30 short frame subcompact .45 auto. He might only have a gun and a radio, but he couldn’t complain. The pistol was a comfortable fit for his hand, light and steady as he aimed. He covered Ivarsson as he pulled at the driver’s door, reaching in and grabbing
the driver, ignoring the driver’s feeble slaps at his head as he dragged him out of the car and dumped him on the road.

  “Jöns Berglund,” Ivarsson said, gesturing at the man on the ground. “He’s the root of it.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Byrne said. He lowered his pistol, just a little but enough to draw a pleading look from the man on the ground. The thick lenses of Berglund’s glasses were smeared in blood, obscuring the man’s vision even more. “Who is he?”

  “Who?” Ivarsson laughed. He crouched beside Berglund, and said, “He wants to know who you are.”

  “Piss off, Ivarsson.” The words spluttered out of Berglund’s mouth, coating his lips with blood, and spraying the snow in front of his face.

  “Piss off? Hah.” Ivarsson stood up. “You can say that now, Berglund. Today, New Year’s Eve of all days. What are your resolutions for the New Year, eh?” Ivarsson spread Berglund’s legs with a couple of swift kicks to his ankles. He patted him down, tossing a pistol onto the road. “All this time, you’ve been directing misinformation my way, sending people down one rabbit hole after another, promising them that I would be there. And all this time,” Ivarsson, paused to kick Berglund between the legs. “It was you. What happened, Jöns? Did you get in over your head? Taken one too many bribes?”

  Byrne stuffed his pistol into the holster on the belt around his snowsuit. He pulled a hat from his pocket and approached Ivarsson, reaching for him, pulling him back as Berglund groaned, spluttering more blood with each kick.

  “I don’t want to be the one to stop you having fun,” Byrne said. “But I need to know what this is about. And I need to get going.” He nodded in the direction of the mountains as Ivarsson looked at him, finally pulling back, catching his breath.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You’re all right?”

  “Yes. I am fine.”

  “And what about him?”

  “I will see to him.”

  “I’m sure you will, but who the fuck is he?”

  “Jöns and I used to work together for the Swedish Security Service. I left almost two years ago, and, in a rather inconvenient twist of fate, it fit with the time SÄPO started using a secure cloud to store data. I went freelance and gained a growing list of clients who SÄPO rather wished I didn’t work for. Jöns used that against me, planting seeds along the way to make sure I suffered for it. But then you came along.” Ivarsson turned away from Berglund and focused on Byrne.

  “Me?”

  “You and the Spurring Group.” Ivarsson nodded. “Yes, I know who you are. And no, your friend who reached out did not give you up. Neither do they know how much I know, only that the answer lies in the mountains, on a tiny USB drive, currently in the possession of one Mats Lindström, another of Jöns’ unfortunate colleagues.”

  “Currently in the possession of?”

  “Yes.” Ivarsson stepped to one side and pointed at the empty trailer jack-knifed at the rear of Berglund’s SUV. “I don’t know if he was running away, but it seems that he has already delivered his team.”

  Byrne turned back to Berglund, looking at him with renewed interest. He crouched beside him, mirroring the position Ivarsson had taken when he first pulled Berglund out of the SUV.

  “How many?” Byrne asked. He removed Berglund’s glasses and jabbed a stiff finger into his eye.

  “Fuck off.”

  “No.” Another jab. “Wrong answer.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Close,” Byrne said. “But unless he’s one of the team you sent into the mountains…” Byrne pulled his finger back.

  “British,” Berglund said. “Most of them.”

  Byrne swapped a look with Ivarsson, and then said, “Explain.”

  “Four British men, one woman. And…” Berglund spat a clot of blood from his mouth. “One Icelander. Big. Taller than Ivarsson.”

  Byrne frowned as he processed the information, searching for the angle, wondering what the fuck was going on. “And the British,” he said. “Who’s leading them?”

  “A man.”

  “Name?”

  “Ansel.”

  “First name, Owen.” Byrne patted Berglund on the head and stood up. He pointed at the trailer. “I need to get going.”

  “Yes,” Ivarsson said. “I will help you.” He followed Byrne, stooping to pick up Berglund’s pistol, tucking it into his jacket pocket as they reached the back of the trailer. Byrne dropped the tailgate and climbed up, releasing the straps as Ivarsson slid the ramps into position.

  “You said you know who I am,” Byrne said, as he slid into the seat of the snowmobile. “You said the name Spurring Group.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will the data on the USB confirm that?”

  “I’m quite sure,” Ivarsson said. “The fact that you know the man Berglund sent into the mountains… Does that not confirm it?”

  Byrne nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “Then there is nothing left to do but…”

  Ivarsson spun away from the trailer as the bullet from Berglund’s gun caught the tall Swede in the shoulder. The drifts of snow on both sides of the road absorbed the sound of the shot, and the second, as Berglund aimed at Byrne.

  Byrne cursed as he rolled off the snowmobile, pulling the Glock out of the holster.

  I’m getting old, he thought. Never checked the vehicle.

  Another shot cleared his mind, and Byrne clicked into action, leaping down from the trailer, using the Ford for cover as he worked his way towards Berglund. When the man from SÄPO approached the front of the Ford, Byrne dropped to the ground, aimed between the wheels, and put a bullet into Berglund’s shin. He rolled to his left as Berglund crumpled onto the road and put a second bullet into his gun hand.

  “Don’t kill him,” Ivarsson shouted, as he walked towards Berglund. “I need to take him in.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. I am sure.” Ivarsson, pulled his hand away from his shoulder and turned his bloody palm towards Byrne. “But perhaps, before you go…”

  “First aid kit?”

  “In the glove compartment.”

  Byrne ducked inside the cab, pulled several bandages out of the glove compartment, and then approached Berglund and Ivarsson. He helped Ivarsson out of his jacket, dressed his wound, pulling the bandages tight, before picking up Berglund’s pistol.

  “That’s two,” he said, handing the pistol to Ivarsson. “I’m guessing there’s more in the cab.”

  Ivarsson held the pistol in his hand. “I will check, once I have secured him.”

  “You’ll need more bandages,” Byrne said.

  He walked back to the rear of the trailer, checked the ramps were secure, then climbed onto the snowmobile, coughing at the fumes as he started the engine. Byrne backed the snowmobile down the ramp, then pulled alongside Ivarsson, letting the snowmobile idle out of gear.

  “I’ll finish this,” Byrne said. “But I’m keeping the USB. You understand?”

  Berglund snorted. “There are five of them.”

  “And one Icelander. So you said.”

  “You don’t understand.” Berglund propped himself up on his elbows. “They are going in to destroy the USB and everyone connected to it. Including your Icelander.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Byrne pulled the Glock out of his pocket and aimed at Berglund’s leg. “Humour me.”

  “I don’t suppose it matters anymore.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  Ivarsson slapped Berglund’s face. “He asked you a question.”

  “They are going to kill everyone,” Berglund said. “Why do you think I was leaving? I wasn’t going to wait for them to come back.”

  “What about the Icelander?” Byrne said.

  “He’s with Polarpol?”

  “What about it?”

  “Polarpol were in Iceland. It is all connected. This…” Berglund waved his bloody hand towards the mountains. “This is where it
ends. All trails end here. No more evidence. No more witnesses. Done.” He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Done,” he whispered.

  Byrne thought for a second, dropping his guard just long enough for Berglund to grab the pistol from Ivarsson’s hand, shove the barrel into his mouth and pull the trigger. The snow behind Berglund sparkled red and pink in the moonlight as the cloud thinned and the moon shone down on the mountains.

  “No,” Ivarsson said, cursing himself for losing the only witness.

  “It’s all right,” Byrne said, as he clicked the snowmobile into gear. “There are more.”

  He pulled away, leaving Ivarsson to clean up the mess of Berglund’s body, as he cut through the snow, accelerating onto the trail Ansel and his team had carved into the snow. Byrne ducked down behind the windshield, wishing he had taken more than just a thin fleece hat and gloves, but confident that he would warm up.

  Once the shooting starts.

  He glanced over his shoulder, saw the crazy angle of the headlights from the battered Ford shining out over the lake, then turned to focus on the trail.

  “Scratch that,” he said, with a grim smile. “The shooting has already started.”

  Byrne settled onto the snowmobile, leaned forward, and gunned the engine.

  Chapter 25

  KEBNEKAISE, SWEDEN

  “You’ve got Mats,” Etienne said, as he headed for the door. “I’ll help Gina.” Etienne zipped his jacket to his collar, adjusted his hat, then shook his head when Evelyn thrust Mats’ pistol towards him. “No,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But you’ll need skis.” Evelyn looked up at the skis in the rafters, then shook her head, remembering how easily her feet fit into Mat’s boots back at his house. “His boots won’t fit.”

  “I’ll think of something,” Etienne said. He paused at the door, grabbed the canvas backpack hanging on a nail, and tipped it upside down, emptying the contents onto the cabin floor.

  “What’s that for?”

  Etienne shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’m working on it.” He took a last look at Evelyn, then scanned the room, wondering how thick the cabin walls were, how long she could hold out with just two pistol magazines.