Swedish Drop
Page 1
Swedish Drop
A PANDORA FILE
Michael D. Wright
Copyright © 2019 by Michael D. Wright
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
This book is dedicated to John Burt, for his creative insight and support.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
About the Author
Caught Fire Preview
Prologue
FOR JOHN SEAL’S EYES ONLY
PANDORA PROGRAM: SWEDISH DROP
LOCATION: Stockholm Sweden
MISSION: On 16 January, you are to intercept a scheduled dead drop between Swedish Security Service (SSS) agent, code name SCRIBE, and US CIA agent, code name MALLARD, operating from the Stockholm CIA Station. Arrive in Stockholm on 14 January, check into Nilsson’s Hostel in Gamla stan and wait for further instructions.
Chapter One
STOCKHOLM SWEDEN
JANUARY 16
TIME CHECK: 1007hrs
‘Pop’ —
Blood spattered —
The front of John Seal's parka was covered with gore. Sucking in a breath, he jumped back. The salty taste on his lips had a gritty texture — bone fragments.
Erratic thoughts tumbled, screaming at him until he realized he was not the one hit. Less than three paces ahead the covert operative's knees buckled, and he collapsed on the icy sidewalk. Half of SCRIBE’s head had exploded.
When he glanced up in the direction of the gunfire, John removed his gloves, fumbled for the Sig Sauer and was shocked at what he saw. The shooter wore a black ski mask and stood peering down at him from behind the parapet along the museum's roof.
Am I next? There's no hiding… no way to defend myself and stay black... he thought.
Amid screams, John’s boots crunched in the snow as he dashed for an alcove in the side of the building out of range. While glancing above he offered a silent prayer preparing to stare death in the face, but the shooter ducked down and disappeared.
John peeked over his shoulder at SCRIBE and holstered his weapon. A metal container the size and shape of a cigarette lighter laid on the sidewalk beside his twitching hand.
Don't look at it… Don’t try to pick it up… There might be others watching to see who does…
With quick strides, John dashed toward an alleyway behind the museum and crouched beside a dumpster. Quickly, he discarded his green beanie, bloody glasses, the down vest two sizes too large, and the fake nose. After wiping his face clean with snow he pulled a jacquard scarf from his pocket and dried himself with it before tossing it in too. Shedding the waterproof coat, John used another handful of snow to scrub it clean.
Then pausing for a beat he glanced up at the roof — the man with the masked face was gone. So he rushed to reverse the parka from black to gray and pulled on his gloves before stepping out from behind the museum looking completely different.
Working to blend in with the crowd gathering around SCRIBE's body, John walked closer waiting to get a better view of what was left of his features to ensure this was indeed Söderström, the Swedish agent.
Jesus… his face is gone…and the package has been trampled… broken into fragments. But he’s wearing a yellow Tiger Sweden beanie…
Satisfied it was SCRIBE, John heard the wail of sirens building to a crescendo and hurriedly moved on. Turning up his collar, John lowered his gaze and treaded west along Stortoget. Passing a group of gawkers who were running in the opposite direction toward the crime scene, he stepped into the crosswalk at Prästgatan and heard three short 'beeps' as a white Volvo skidded past him.
John’s breath hitched when his foot slipped as the car swerved and sped away. But not before he glimpsed a woman wearing a scarf sitting in the passenger's seat pressing a cellphone to her ear.
Shit…That’s the same white Volvo. Was that intentional to get a better look at me?
John’s eyes narrowed as they darted from rooftop to doorway and from car to car up and down the street searching for the assassin. With a measured cadence, he worked to blend in with the crowd like any other tourist and escaped the pandemonium in front of the museum.
Following the map of Gamla stan that he had memorized before arriving in Sweden, John trudged toward a coffee shop a few blocks away to regroup. If the mission had gone as planned he would be on his way to the airport by now headed back to the United States.
Stay focused Seal… Right now, I’m just a tourist visiting the old city…
Up ahead, a bearded man j-walking across the street caught John’s eye. Something about the way he moved with ease navigating through the slower foot traffic stood out as odd.
Is he positioning himself to intercept me?
John picked up his pace too. And as he closed in on the guy, he noticed a black ski mask stuck out from under the flap of his backpack.
Oh shit…
Yanking off his right glove, John’s fingers brushed the butt of his weapon as he closed the distance between them. When the guy turned right onto Slottskajen out of sight John broke into a run.
I can’t lose him… I need answers… Who does he work for…
At the cross-street he rounded the corner in full stride and almost ran him down, nudging the guy’s shoulder. The fellow had stopped walking and was breathlessly speaking to a cop pointing in the direction of the museum. When he looked up with a clenched jaw, John mumbled, “Excuse me,” and continued on his way.
God Seal… Get a grip…
By the time he reached Café Heléne the snow flurries were growing into fat fluffy flakes and the sky was completely gray.
Inside the quaint establishment, John strode to the counter and ordered two shots of espresso. He asked the barista, “Var kan det sitta? Where can I sit?” as he tossed back the coffee like a snifter of cognac.
There was no ignoring that sound of the sirens coming from all directions when the barista with light eyes gestured toward a circular table and stool near the front of the cafe. Still unsure if he was a target, John nudged his Sig Sauer and found a seat. While pressing his back against the trendy shop’s brick wall he focused on his breathing to gathered himself.
Something about this place reminds me of a restaurant on Rush Street back home in Chicago…
John took a moment to enjoy the redolence of mixed aromas; coffee, spices, and yeast. The pulpy newspaper on the bench next to him reminded him of his home. But thoughts of home were quickly forgotten since he was unable to ignore the prickly sensation skipping across his skin.
Leaning back in his chair John peered out the high windows. He took several minutes to study every pedestrian and vehicle traveling up and down the sidewalk and street — or for someone using a cell phone to snap pictures in his direction. A single mistake, despite his evasive street craft maneuvers, could have a decisive result — his death.
And I’ll be forever remembered among my peers as a failure to myself and my country.
When John was as sure as possible that no one was surveilling him, he crushed the Styrofoam cup in his hand and tossed it into a trashcan. Turning his attention on the next task he opened the laptop and snapped the finger-shaped an
tenna in place.
One more time, he glanced outside while connecting to the secure server via a covcom app. Then rubbing his palms anxiously over his thighs, John watched as the screen blinked off and on a few times during the system handshake with the secure server before typing his passcode.
All his previous missions had been successful — or as far as he knew they were. Today however, he was unsure how his handler would react to the news that the package he had come to collect was lying crushed in the snow beside SCRIBE’s lifeless body.
Would SWEDISH DROP be canceled — chalked up as a scratch, or be duped as a failed mission, or perhaps be labeled as incomplete? He sucked in a breath and palmed his hair.
Now comes the hard part...
TIME CHECK: 1045.
John rubbed his hands together and mentally shifted gears. Focusing on his work, his fingers danced over the keys as he entered his second passcode string and waited for the authentication process to access the server on which messaging between agents was hosted.
Munching a protein bar he had in his pack, John waited while the seconds turned to minutes and watched as the digital indicator moved from 'log on' to 'connecting' and finally to 'authorizing.’
I'm in...
Glancing up once more he peered out at a bus pulling up at a stop across the street. A man hobbling on a cane stepped closer and reached for the handle, hoisting himself inside, and a puff of dark smoke swirled as the transit pulled away.
Nope… he’s not a tail. He didn’t leave a signal on the bench or mark the trashcan in any way before he boarded the bus…
Still convinced he had not been discovered, John entered his code word — NORTHSTAR — and began typing a real-time message.
Since it was very early morning in Washington DC, he wondered if Senator Nancy Daniels would get the text that her covcom messenger had been activated. Within moments his question was answered when a blue circle appeared beside the header of the text box.
NORTHSTAR: Advise mission SWEDISH DROP aborted.
MEDUSA: Why? This was never an option.
NORTHSTAR: SCRIBE was eliminated two paces before hand-off.
MEDUSA: Why didn't you recover the package if that close?
NORTHSTAR: Package was destroyed.
MEDUSA: Operation SWEDISH DROP is still active... NO ABORT!
NEW ORDERS: 1) Location-Swedish Ministry of Justice Building. 2) Obtain a laptop belonging to a person of interest Ludwig Lindqvist — a member of the Swedish Ministry of Justice. 3) Eliminate Lindqvist. 4) You have 48 hours to complete the mission. In two days, leave the city by any means necessary.
NORTHSTAR: Confirm elimination of Ludvig Lindqvist.
MEDUSA: Confirmed!
Disheartened, John waited for the blue circle to disappear and logged out of the covcom connection. Then he quickly did a Google search of the area for hotels and made a reservation with a familiar one. Retracing his steps along Slottskajen, he treaded west one block back to Prästgatan.
On the way that prickly sensation began to morph into something new — an ember was glowing in his chest. John had felt it before when he was an Air Force combat controller tasked with directing a mission he felt was flawed. Through discipline, he had learned to snuff out the flame stoked by anger and fear.
I did it then… I’ll have to do it now… I have orders…
John’s heartbeats matched his footfalls against the snowy sidewalk as he made his way toward the Lady Hamilton Hotel. It was common knowledge the hotel staff prided themselves in their homey atmosphere, and their customer service was beyond reproach. And now that John’s mission had taken a new turn, he was pleased to discover it was located only two blocks from the Swedish Government Building Complex.
When John pulled open the glass door, he was met by a welcoming blast of warm air and unzipped his parka. With his Sig still holstered out of view, he descended the steps into a long ceremonial type hall that led to the lobby. As the clock beside the gift shop struck noon, John wasted no time locating the bar.
His stomach growled as he read the menu and ordered a sandwich on dark bread spread with liver pate topped with pickles, cheese, cucumbers, and peppers. A brimming cup of steaming Swedish egg coffee helped to warm him.
John sat and chatted a while with the bartender while eating lunch and was told a man was murdered in front of the famed Nobel Museum by a terrorist still at large.
"A terrorist?" John raised his brow and questioned the rotund gentleman with graying hair drying tumblers.
"An Asian," he clarified. “That’s what I was told.”
“How did they know? It only happened a few hours ago?” John asked chewing.
Leaning closer, the barkeep whispered, “You know this place… The walls have eyes and ears… I hear… I see…” He glanced around as if the walls were watching the two of them.
“So, why would a terrorist target only one person?” John asked.
“The museum… It’s a famous place.”
“Yes, it honors those who have won the Nobel Prize… but terrorists… I don’t get the connection?”
The barkeep topped-off John’s coffee. “That’s exactly the reason. What are the words you Americans use? Umm…” He drummed his fingers on the bar. “They want to be famous.”
John laughed, “You mean… They want to make a name for themselves?”
“Yes… yes of course. That’s it.” He stepped back and looked at him through his bushy brows with a devilish grin. “And maybe there’s more…” Then he shrugged and resumed his chore.
During the rest of his meal, John listened to at least three different renditions of what had happened in front of the Nobel Museum that morning: A jealous husband, a mob killing, a robbery.
Of course, none of them were true. But when John met the barkeep at the register to pay his check he felt a cold chill when the guy gave him a sideways smile and said, “You know about this murder, yes?”
When John didn’t answer and handed him a credit card with Marshall Hurst’s name raised in gold letters, he examined it and stated, “Have a pleasant day… Mr. Hurst. Enjoy your stay.” When he gave the card back his eyes sparkled. “You know, they found bloody clothing in the dumpster behind the museum?”
John grunted a reply and headed for the hotel lobby. Slipping into an upholstered armchair, he dug Marshall Hurst's passport from the side pocket of the backpack.
This makes three people I've been this morning. At least Marshall looks like me thanks to the crafty work of a tech back in Langley... or maybe the State Department...
When he approached the desk and requested a room for the next few days, the man with a pencil-thin mustache and hairy hands passed him an urbane smile and answered, "I'm sorry sir, we are at capacity this evening."
John pulled a crisp 1000 krona bill from his money clip and slid it under the leather blotter. With that same smile, the clerk tapped his pen against the desk. "Let me see what I can do."
Fifteen minutes later, when the gray sky was turning dark as a blizzard bore down on the city, John Seal dropped his backpack on the bed covered with a patchwork quilt.
Rushing to clear his head he stepped into the shower, and with the steam billowing around him John was left with one thought.
How the fuck did I end up here?
TIME CHECK: 1445.
Chapter Two
STOCKHOLM SWEDEN
JANUARY 15
TIME CHECK: 0700hrs
Gusts of wind rattled the double dormer windows of John's hostel loft. Glancing at the second hand of his watch, he pulled the curtain aside and peered down at Svartmangatan at the new blanket of white covering the cobblestones. In Gamla stan, the town between two bridges on the island of Stadsholmen, the morning sky was still dark but, he was wide awake. The seven 'bongs' from the antique floor clock across the room sent a stinging serge of adrenalin free inside the internal black-ops agent.
PANDORA mission SWEDISH DROP was officially underway.
John's b
reath formed a cloud of fog on the glass as he stood watching the activity two stories below. The street lamps created a dotted line of fuzzy halos above the sidewalk. Already, pedestrians were making their way past upscale storefronts and eateries. A crowd of school children stood huddled together on the corner at the end of the block while John waited for someone to contact him with his next instructions.
The whistling teapot on the two burner stove was calling him, but he ignored it as he watched amused at the tall man wearing a top hat rounded the corner. His steps were halting, and puffs of fog appeared and disappeared with each breath. He sported a chest-length white beard, completing his mystique.
That’s a scene straight out of a Dickens novel…
Amazed, John peered into his teacup and marveled how the spoonful of honey made a perfect circle at the bottom before he disturbed it with his spoon. Then came three quick raps at the door. Laying the spoon on the saucer, he wondered.
Housekeeping... this early?
On the way to let them in, he picked his pistol up from the desk and slid it into his shoulder holster underneath his cardigan. John's eye squinted a bit as he looked through the peephole, but all he saw was a black top hat.
No, surely not...
Pulling the door open, he faced the same man he had seen on the street. The stranger held his hat in one hand with a large manila envelope in the other. Tilting his head to one side, he studied John's face and with a thin smile he stated, "I have walked a long distance. May I have a cup of water."
When John heard the code phrase, 'a cup of water,' he answered with his own. "I only have Perrier."
"That will be fine."
Hearing the correct reply, John stepped aside gesturing for the man to come in. "That fire looks delightful. If you don't mind, I'd like to warm up before I go."