by Matthew Dunn
Zeeb answered, “We’ve had nothing for weeks and only one due in during the next month.”
“When will it arrive?”
“About twenty minutes’ time.”
“Twenty minutes?!” Urgently, Møller said, “We’re on our way. Get Knudsen to meet us at the harbor.” He ended the call, stood, and looked at his colleague. “We need three sidearms from the gun cabinet, plus spare ammo. I’ll get the car.” He paused, felt breathless, and quickly said, “I was going to ask you to join me for a drink after work. Sorry. Stupid, I guess, but thought you ought to know. Just in case . . . in case.”
Salik Knudsen stared through binoculars while standing next to the harbormaster at the base of the long jetty. The blond-haired, blue-eyed customs officer could easily see the trawler slowly heading toward the berthing station at the head of the narrow pier. “Møller didn’t say anything else?”
Papik Zeeb shook his head. “Just that there’s a slim chance the boat might be carrying illegal cargo.” The old man looked uncertain. “What should I do?”
“Go back to your office. Put a call into my HQ telling them that I’m about to conduct an on-board search alongside police officers Møller and Lund.” He glanced at Zeeb. “Stay there until one of us calls you once the search is complete.”
The harbormaster smiled. “Bit of action at last, eh, Salik?”
“Oh, at best it’ll be contraband cigarettes and booze. But I’ll take what I can get.”
The trawler captain expertly steered the vessel toward the tip of the jetty and slowed the boat to five knots. At the far end of the pier, standing on the harbor wall, was a solitary figure. Though he was too far away to be distinguishable, almost certainly it was the harbormaster, eagerly awaiting his usual gift of liquor.
The captain imagined walking down the pier, holding his gift in two arms, greeting Papik Zeeb with a big smile, strolling alongside the old man to his car, and helping him put the crate into his trunk while Will Cochrane ran down the jetty and vanished before the captain and Zeeb returned to go through the formalities of checking paperwork.
That’s how he’d told Will Cochrane how it would happen. Easy for a man of his talents. But the MI6 officer had said nothing in response, just looked at him while checking the workings of his handgun with an expression that made even the captain feel considerably ill at ease.
Møller stopped his car and said to Johanne, “With me. Fast.”
The two police officers ran to part of the harbor wall that hid them from the sea. Salik Knudsen was only ten yards away from them, still rooted at the base of the jetty.
Møller called out, “Salik! Over here,” beckoned him when the customs officer looked over, and crouched down even though there was no need to do so. Johanne handed Møller a pistol and spare cartridges, which Møller in turn thrust into Knudsen’s hand. “You may need these.”
Knudsen asked what was going on.
Møller told him.
“What’s a black operative?”
Møller answered, “Apparently, someone who can kill everyone in Tasiilaq.”
The captain turned off the boat’s motor, shoved a cigar into the corner of his mouth, and smiled. The trip had earned him two thousand dollars. Cochrane had objected to paying the sum, but the captain had rightly pointed out that their deal was to get Cochrane out of Norway and dump him in adjacent Sweden, Finland, or Russia, but for some reason Cochrane had wanted to head west and enter Greenland. That was above and beyond the captain’s duty. It meant a financial deal needed to be struck.
Two thousand dollars didn’t sound like much, but it was to a fisherman who only occasionally could top up his income with more lucrative and illegal activities. And right now, the fishing catches were poor and the supply and demand for smuggled goods was going through a dry patch. Two thousand dollars would go a long way to keep him and his family alive until the warmer months produced full nets of herring and cod, and the hull of his vessel could once again contain gold, counterfeit fifty-dollar notes, and maybe some white powder.
He exited the cabin, picked up the wooden box of bourbon, stepped onto the jetty, and frowned as he saw three people in the distance walking slowly toward him.
Møller gripped his handgun tight as he cautiously stepped along the pier. He glanced at Johanne, then Knudsen. “You know him?”
The customs officer nodded. “He’s the captain. I boarded his vessel a year ago. Probably he’s got his wife and sons with him.”
The captain stopped. He was approximately one hundred yards away.
Møller whispered, “He might be about to bolt.”
Knudsen looked at the calm sea either side of the jetty. The nearest land and other vessels in the port were at least seventy yards away from the jetty, and the water around it would quickly kill anyone who dived into it without wearing a scuba dry suit. “Where to?”
“Drive his boat out of here; head home.”
Knudsen shook his head as he continued onward with his two colleagues. “He’d easily be picked up at sea. He’s trapped.”
Møller imagined Cochrane waiting inside the boat with a weapon, cornered, with no intention of giving himself up. His voice shook as he said, “Trapped? Oh good.”
They moved closer.
The captain remained motionless.
Forty yards away.
Møller shouted, “Get your crew out here.”
The captain placed his box on the jetty. “What’s this about?”
Knudsen answered, “Just routine. We’re checking all boats coming into Tasiilaq. We can get this done in minutes and be on our way.”
They moved closer to the captain, stopped when they were a few feet away from him, and kept their pistols pointing at the decking so as not to antagonize the burly sailor.
The captain glanced over his shoulder, placed two fingers in his mouth, and emitted a high-pitched whistle. His three sons and wife stepped off the trawler and looked puzzled and anxious as they moved to the captain’s side.
Knudsen smiled, and tried to keep his voice calm and jovial. “You got anything on board we should know about?”
The captain did not smile. Instead the broad man momentarily looked like he was going to step forward and rip Knudsen’s head off. “Like what?”
“Like a man who wants to get into Greenland unnoticed.”
The captain spat on the jetty, his saliva brown from cigar residue. “We’re not a fucking ferry service. We fish.”
“I know.” Knudsen shrugged, hoping the gesture made it look like they were all in this together and that this was a procedural load of nonsense. “Nuuk’s up its own ass. Told us we had to check every vessel. No exceptions.” He laughed. “My bosses have spent too long away from the sea.” His smile receded. “But I got no choice. Need to know if”—he nodded toward the trawler—“there’s a man in there.”
The captain was silent, his eyes darting between the three people in front of him.
Møller felt his sweat slime between his hand and the pistol’s grip. “You looking to cause us trouble?”
“Trouble?” The captain’s voice boomed. He kicked the box, inside which bottles clanged against each other. “I was looking to give you boys a good time, not trouble. You’re the ones with guns.”
Møller glanced at Knudsen. “You keep them here. We’ll go on board.”
As Møller and Johanne walked past the trawler crew, the captain lit the stub of his cigar and shouted out, “Good luck with that.”
It was the last thing Møller wanted to hear. He glanced at his rookie colleague, nodded, gripped his pistol, and moved toward the vessel feeling sick with fear.
Will Cochrane slid the workings of his handgun back and forth, placed the pistol in his lap, flexed his muscular fingers, and arched his back. He could hear seagulls and waves gently lapping against the boat, but he had no care for the tranquillity of his surroundings. He could sense that danger was drawing closer to him.
As she stepped onto the trawler, Johann
e thought three things. One, she’d never searched a boat before; two, community policing wasn’t supposed to be like this; and three, perhaps she should go for a drink after work with Daniel Møller—providing of course they weren’t hospitalized or dead.
Daniel seemed nervous. His hands were shaking and his face was covered with perspiration, though she could see that he was making every effort to stay in control. He was a scared man who had no choice but to face up to this situation and act brave, and that appealed to her. Less so his office habits, but guys can be like that, and she knew he meant her no disrespect. He needed a woman to make him better lunches.
Might be too late for that.
She followed him into the hold, recalling a jumped-up firearms instructor yelling at her during police training that she was the worst shot he’d ever had the displeasure of teaching. Officer Møller was in front of her, his upper body hunched, breathing fast as they entered a small cabin with bunk beds. He stopped by a narrow ladder, and pointed at his chest and the ceiling. He was going to somewhere above them, on his own. Oh yes, the place where they sail the boat, or steer it, or drive it, or whatever was the right term. That was good, bad, and bad. Good that she didn’t have to go up there, bad that Daniel might get his throat slit the moment he reached the top of the ladder and stuck his head into the tiny cabin, and bad that she’d be left on her own with a weapon that didn’t deserve to be in her hands.
She shook her head, eyes wide, at Daniel. What noise would he make if he were stabbed in the gullet? Worse, she decided, than the noises he made in their office.
But Officer Møller looked sternly at her and proceeded to climb. He must have been petrified.
As his legs disappeared from view, she spun around a full 360 degrees, too quickly, and her head felt momentarily giddy. She heard boots clanging on the metal ladder, the noise growing louder. Daniel coming back down? Or a murderer?
She trained her gun on the ladder. Her hands were shaking so much that she decided she’d have to fire at least three shots to stand a chance of hitting anything near the stairway.
Boots came into view, then legs.
Then Daniel.
Thank God.
Officer Møller shook his head. The cabin was empty. Did that mean they could leave now? Clearly not, because Daniel was moving onward, now holding his gun in two hands, his breathing louder than ever. Officer Møller obviously knew more about boats than she did and was leading her to a place they’d not yet searched.
He stopped by some steps, leaned right into her, cupped his hand over his and her mouth, and whispered, “The hold.” His breath smelled of raw beef and eggs. Johanne decided she definitely needed to wean him off that filth. “It’s the last place to check and most likely where he’s hiding.” He tried to smile, but the fear and tension on his face made it impossible to do so. “Drinks on me?”
Johanne nodded. Strange time and place for her to agree to a date, but under the circumstances, why not?
She followed him down metal stairs into the dimly lit base of the boat, swallowing hard while praying to God that fear didn’t make her suddenly burst into tears.
Will tensed and looked at his handgun. Any moment now. Had to be ready, move quickly, get the job done, then get out of here. No time to think now. Everything’s instinctual. No matter what comes your way, use maximum force, no hesitation, no guilt, no compassion toward anyone carrying a weapon.
Møller reached the bottom of the stairs, his pistol held at eye level, and braced himself for a gunshot to the chest or head. If that happened, he hoped Johanne had time to turn around and run away. It was her best option, and she should just keep running, away from the boat, the jetty, Tasiilaq, and her job in the police. At least his death wouldn’t then be pointless.
The boat’s cargo hold stretched the length of the trawler, not much bigger than a regular-sized living room, but was cluttered with crates, nets, lobster pots, tools, blankets, oilskin clothes, ropes, lanterns, and buoys. There were plenty of places for a man to hide.
He had to search the place thoroughly while acting like Johanne’s superior officer, even though he wasn’t even up to a bit of acting, let alone professional policing. Moving between the crates, he could hear Johanne behind him, breathing as fast as he was. The air was salty and fetid, from damp clothing and rotting fish and mollusks, and made him gag. Or maybe it was the wretched feeling inside.
His head banged against a low-hanging naked lightbulb, which swung wildly on its single cord, throwing haphazard light into the hold’s dim recesses and causing Johanne to shriek. He grabbed the cord to steady the bulb, silently cursed, and continued moving around the room. Both officers checked behind anything that could conceal a man, lifted blankets and nets, kicked stuff to see if it prompted a killer to bolt from his hidey-hole, and finally used whatever tools they could find to lever open every crate in the room.
When they were finished, Møller looked at Johanne. Tears ran down his cheeks as he said between sobs, “He’s not here. No one’s here. Thank . . . thank . . .” He could no longer speak, and instead stepped forward and hugged Johanne. They were alive.
Will Cochrane scrutinized the coastline and felt relief. No cops, no others, no danger.
He thrust his pistol into his jacket, leapt from the small rubber dinghy into knee-deep water, flicked open a knife, and used it to slash the rubber. He watched the strong ebb take the shredded boat quickly back out to sea, grabbed the two oars that were floating by his legs, and walked onto the thin strip of pebbly beach. After five minutes, both oars were buried under stones. Within a couple of hours, the wash would probably expose them again, but by then it wouldn’t matter. He’d be long gone.
He ran off the beach, up higher ground until he was on an empty area of ice-covered flatland, beyond which were mountains. Spinning around, he went down on one knee, pulled out the scope from the sniper rifle he’d left in Norway, and stared through it. Three-quarters of a mile away was Tasiilaq. He could see the port’s jetty, the trawler, the captain and his crew, and a man he didn’t know standing close to them while holding a pistol. A man and a woman, wearing cop uniforms, exited the boat and joined the group. The woman was smiling, the man was speaking, and both were holstering their pistols. The other man gave him his handgun and slapped him on the shoulder before turning toward the captain and holding out his hand. The captain hesitated, then beamed, shook the man’s hand, reached down into the crate by his feet, and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, which he uncorked with his teeth. He passed the bottle around and everyone on the jetty took a swig. The male cop held his hand to his chest and vomited onto the pier before smiling and shaking his head. The female cop laughed, then she too threw up. Their bodies were reacting to the fear and adrenaline they’d felt moments ago.
Will had known he might have trouble getting off the vessel once it had berthed. That’s why he’d insisted that instead the trawler crew lower a dinghy alongside the boat while they were still out at sea, so that Will could row to a place on the shoreline that was out of sight of the port.
He was glad it had happened that way and that the people who’d come looking for him had ended the day’s adventures with nothing worse than a glug of the captain’s awful liquor. And he was also relieved that he hadn’t needed to confront any other potential danger on this bit of coastline.
He pulled his jacket hood onto his head and ran toward a destination in Greenland that contained people who were infinitely more deadly than those he’d seen a moment ago.
ELEVEN
CIA director Ed Parker was standing on a Washington sidewalk. Next to him were Senator Colby Jellicoe and his Agency colleague Charles Sheridan. Cars moved slowly past them with their windshield wipers and headlights on full because the torrential downpour made visibility poor, though it was only midafternoon. On the other side of the street was the imposing Dirksen Senate Office Building, renovated fifteen years previously to make its numerous committee hearing rooms more television friendly. In thirty mi
nutes, Jellicoe would be sitting in one of those rooms, with cameras pointing at him while he testified to some of his colleagues.
Parker raised his umbrella so that he could see Jellicoe’s face. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
Jellicoe smiled.
Sheridan did not. “Shut up, Parker.”
“Don’t talk to a senior officer . . .”
“Senior to me by one grade, and only ’cause your paycheck says so.” Sheridan flicked a finger against the tip of Parker’s nose. “Having a fancy title doesn’t give you the right to get all ladyboy on us.”
Parker was about to respond but knew there was no point. Sheridan loved conflict, and a retort would play right into his hands. He looked at Jellicoe. “Your mind’s made up?”
Jellicoe nodded, his grin still fixed on his flabby face. “Back channel, the deal’s already been done with the Norwegians, so we might as well make it public.”
“Why?”
Jellicoe didn’t answer, and that confused Parker even more. The senator had told the Norwegian government the truth about what had happened in Norway and had given them Will Cochrane’s name as the rogue officer behind the fiasco, though he’d naturally omitted any mention of Antaeus and Project Ferryman. In doing so, he’d completely defused political tensions between the States and Norway to the extent that the Norwegians were fully cooperating with Marsha Gage to hunt down the MI6 officer. But Jellicoe couldn’t be so candid in a televised hearing. Instead, he’d have to say that a classified Agency operation in Norway went wrong, that the Norwegians were on our side, and that an investigation was under way into why the operation nearly caused a diplomatic furor. Some of the senators facing Jellicoe would naturally ask him for further specific details, but at that stage Jellicoe would have to keep his mouth shut on the basis of national security.
So, what was the point of airing a drastically sanitized version of events at a public hearing? Perhaps, Parker speculated, this was about nothing more than Jellicoe getting his ambitious face back in front of the cameras. Yes, that was it. For a long time, Jellicoe had ridden the crest of a wave because of Ferryman. Parker could tell that Jellicoe was ready to take another step up the career ladder, perhaps to chairman of the SSCI. Or maybe—Parker shuddered at the thought—to head of the CIA.