Man on Edge

by Humphrey Hawksley

  ‘Arm torpedo,’ he ordered.

  He was using the Shkval torpedo, whose rocket propulsion could send it to targets over long distances at up to 200 miles an hour. As it sped along, the Shkval vaporized water in front of it using a technology that engineers called supercavitating. For Kurchin, it was a better weapon, nothing more. He did not enjoy murdering fellow submariners. He brought his submarine to within three miles of the Halland, touched the black steel pendant of the Kolovrat that hung from a hook on the periscope, and gave the order to fire. The Shkval was noisy. But with its lethal speed, by the time the Halland crew understood what was happening, it would be too late to intervene, and they would be seconds from death.

  Skorskog, Norway–Russia Border

  Norwegian border police waved though Rake, Mikki, and Nilla in the late morning. They were traveling in an armored Land Cruiser. The temperature was minus thirteen Celsius with a chill factor created by strong wind. Pine trees flanked the road, making it feel as if they were gliding inside a cloud-filled canyon. Nilla slowed on approaching the Russian side, expecting an FSB Land Cruiser to pull out and drive with them. There was nothing. Lights were on inside the timbered Russian buildings, but no one in sight, no traffic either. The Russian guards had melted away. Daytime moonlight casts a silver glow over the landscape. Cellphones switched to Russian networks. Rake fired up the encrypted satellite link and told Harry Lucas they were across.

  ‘Future comms, your call sign is Sword Edge. Mine is Excalibur.’

  ‘Sword Edge. Excalibur,’ repeated Rake, words that would cut through noise from the worst blizzard.

  ‘We’re running drone surveillance along the border. Carrie is at a farmhouse three miles south of a place called Salmiyarvi, thirty minutes south from where you are now. She arrived ninety-eight minutes ago. We counted eleven people at the property, four vehicles. Carrie has a child with her. She walked him or her to the house. We are running advanced ID on the thermal image to confirm Yumatov is there. We have visuals on your vehicle, but not for long. The weather’s coming down bad.’

  ‘Bad weather can be our best friend,’ said Rake.

  FORTY-ONE

  Salmiyarvi, Murmansk Oblast, Russia

  Ruslan Yumatov opened the door onto the wrap-around wooden balcony of the old farmhouse south of the settlement of Salmiyarvi. A howling wind smashed into him. He steadied himself against the wall and kicked the door shut. Frozen clumps of mist swirled through the grounds. Before the blizzard knocked out satellite communications, Yumatov had made contact with technicians in Severomorsk and confirmed that the drive Carrie had given him was a fake. He had searched Carrie’s bags. He had gotten the farmer’s stupid wife to search Carrie herself. They had found nothing. As long as the real drive did not fall into the hands of NATO before the presidential summit, it could not pose a problem. The blizzard would ease. Rake Ozenna would be captured and the American murderer from the Diomede would be paraded in front of the Russian people. Any military planner worth his salt allowed for bad weather. The cellphone signal was still up, and Yumatov could see that the whiteout stretched north into the Barents Sea where the royal yacht HnoMY Norge had been hauled out of its winter dock to host the summit. News reports covered dignitaries arriving in Kirkenes and boarding the Norge with close-up shots of Foreign Minister Sergey Grizlov in a group with British Ambassador Lucas. Yumatov had identified the farmhouse the day after he murdered Gerald Cooper. The caretaker farmer was only too keen for the money and to accommodate such a famous Russian patriot. Although isolated, the house was close enough to the road and its land flat enough to take a helicopter. Encircling trees gave protection.

  Yumatov took the stairs to the ground floor. Outside, under the cover of the balcony, six men sat on plastic chairs, hands cupped skillfully to keep their cigarettes alive against the weather. They stood up and saluted. Yumatov briefed the sergeant. He wanted two men on the field to guide in the helicopter when the weather quietened, two watching the road running north, and one in Salmiyarvi to alert Yumatov once Ozenna’s vehicle had passed through.

  The sergeant and the remaining man would stay in the house tasked with keeping the boy and Carrie safe. He needed Rufus Tolstoye to ensure Carrie stayed in line and he needed Carrie to lure in Rake Ozenna. Once the destruction of the Norwegian royal yacht and the two Presidents left the world reeling, Ozenna would be taken to Severomorsk for the ceremony and Carrie and the boy would die. The killing could be here, bodies burnt, ashes left in permafrost.

  Carrie didn’t look up when Yumatov walked in. He stood over her, arms folded. She concentrated on a yellow flame dancing around burning logs in a black iron stove that stood between two windows. ‘I will explain how we worked in Syria,’ he said. ‘You decide what course to take.’ He unbuttoned his greatcoat, took it off, folded it across the back of one of the chairs, and walked over to a scrubbed wooden table by the window. This was Yumatov’s second visit to the room. It was a large, rambling building with rusting pipes and broken windows. Carrie had counted three black Land Cruisers outside. Yumatov had led her and Rufus into this spacious front room that was barely furnished. One part was warmed by the stove. The rest was ridden with drafts coming through windows on three sides. A red floral carpet covered most of the area. Three worn brown-leather armchairs circled the stove and, across the room, was the table with the wooden toys, where Yumatov now stood.

  Earlier, he had brought in a kindly faced woman around sixty whom he introduced as Lydia. She carried a battered cardboard box which she placed on a table across the room and brought out colored wooden toys, cars with broken wheels and farmyard animals with missing legs, their paint chipped and faded. Rufus ran across to the table, picked up a toy cow with a leg snapped off. Yumatov said the toys would keep the boy occupied while Lydia body-searched Carrie outside. Lydia took her across the hall, where two of Yumatov’s men stood by the door, into a freezing restroom with ice wrapped around ceiling pipes. Lydia explained she and her husband were caretakers for the house owned by a family now living outside of Russia. It was once lavish. Three decades of neglect had worn it down to what it was now. Lydia talked and apologized. She was cooking a stew for them. Her children had left home and were in Moscow. Money was so difficult now. Carrie said she understood what Lydia had to do, explaining she had given Yumatov everything she had. She asked if Lydia had any sanitary towels. Lydia shook her head. She was past menopause and they had no children here. Carrie told her not to worry. She would keep the tampon she already had. Lydia was embarrassed, ashamed, and she was not a nurse. The search was over in barely a minute. They had returned to the large room and Lydia had brought in steaming beef broth and chunks of bread. Yumatov had gone outside, issuing orders to his men. She calculated there were between six and twelve, although there could be battalions in the grounds.

  Now he was back. He tipped all the wooden toys onto the table and flattened the cardboard from the box. He took Carrie’s medical bag and placed rolls of bandages and antiseptic ointment at the end of the table. He unsheathed a knife from his waist and laid it next to them.

  Rufus was running in circles in and out of the warmth, his hands stretched out pretending to be an airplane. His face was fixed like a statue of a child crying, no sound or tears. Yumatov called his name, asking him to come over to the table. Rufus’s stopped, his arms dropped, like a shot bird. He ran to Carrie. Yumatov stepped across, pried Rufus’ hands away from Carrie’s shoulders, and carried him to the table. Lydia rested both her hands protectively on Rufus’s shoulders. Carrie prayed for him to play up, yell out, slip away, give them hell. But she recognized his expression of helplessness, terror, paralysis.

  ‘In Syria, we identified the strongest in the household.’ Yumatov retained the same tone of courtesy and charm making his words even more chilling. ‘Usually that was the husband and the father. We did not touch him. We cut up his wife and children while he watched. A human being can endure pain until death, but few can watch their loved ones suffer wi
thout talking. Tonight, Carrie, you are the head of the family and little Rufus is your loved one.’ He walked back to Carrie, pulled round a chair with his foot, and sat down. He was wearing a shoulder holster with a pistol on his left side. He faced Carrie directly. His eyes were unsettled. They didn’t match the certainty of his voice, something slight, like someone who had drunk too much coffee, suppressing jumpiness, like someone who tried to be the smartest in the room, but wasn’t sure.

  Carrie took advantage: ‘How you doing, Ruslan? Max and Natasha good, are they? Cutting up Rufus is a sure way to win Anna’s love and respect.’

  Yumatov’s face blackened. Lips pursed, muscles of his right arm tensed as if about to raise his hand. He stopped himself. ‘I need to know what you have done with your uncle’s data, Carrie. It is not on the drive you gave me. You are not carrying it. I will run through questions. If the answers are satisfactory, no one gets hurt. If you lie to me, Rufus will lose a finger. That will keep happening until you tell me the truth. One lie, one injury.’

  Carrie leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes unyielding, hard into Yumatov, upbeat tone the same: ‘OK, Ruslan. I’ll give it my best shot.’

  Yumatov needed fear and control. Carrie responded with flippancy. He brushed his hand against his pistol as if to draw confidence. ‘Vice-Admiral Semenov left you a military-grade drive containing classified information. Where is it?’

  Carrie shrugged: ‘I gave you what I found.’

  ‘One lie, Carrie. I’ll give you a pass and try again because I like you. When did you know Semenov had passed you the flash drive?’

  ‘As I was running from his killing.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I was scared. I kept moving.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘A place called the Doctors’ Cafe near the Sklifosovsky Clinic.’

  ‘Yes, and did you give the drive to Stephanie Lucas when she found you there?’

  That was unexpected. How much did Yumatov know? She couldn’t help looking across to Rufus, the back of his head, a tuft of black hair needed combing, at Lydia the housekeeper, gray hair falling out beneath her head scarf, holding Rufus steady.

  ‘I planned to give it to Ambassador Lucas once we reached her residence. She was called to the Four Seasons to see the Foreign Minister and then you know what happened.’

  Yumatov held up the tiny black drive. ‘I ask you again, Carrie. Is this what Semenov left for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Yumatov swiped his tablet and handed it across to her. ‘Then what is this?’

  There was a video-surveillance picture of Carrie in the Moscow Internet cafe. It was a frighteningly high-quality image of Semenov’s drive plugged into the side of the computer showing the long list of numbers she had sent to Rake. ‘Internet cafes are a priority for our intelligence agencies,’ he said. ‘Especially those who only take cash and require no registration. By trying to be so clever, Carrie, you were very stupid.’ He reached over her, smelling of sweet aftershave. ‘What is this, Carrie? This is not on the drive you gave me.’

  She shifted back on the chair. Yumatov swiped to a close-up of the flash drive in the cafe computer’s USB port. He laid the drive Carrie had given him next to it. ‘What did you do, Carrie? Paint it like those toys. This one that you gave me is black. It has a commercial logo in red. SanDisk. The one I am looking for is red with no logo because it is a military-standard drive.’ His tone hardened. ‘You have five seconds, or the boy loses a finger.’

  Carrie folded in on herself, clawing at the depths of her reserves. She kept her voice low to prevent it from cracking. ‘Wrong call, Ruslan. I’m a trauma surgeon, remember? I calculate priorities. Soon as you injure Rufus, you lose me. One finger, five fingers, no difference. I have what you want, but you need to be smarter. Why don’t—’

  Yumatov struck the back of his hand hard across her face. Carrie’s head jerked back. The noise of the blow rang in her ears. Her eyes welled. She put her hands on each arm of the chair to steady her posture. Lydia held Rufus’ shoulders, whispered in the boy’s ear. A guard walked into the room and held down Rufus’ wrist. Yumatov’s voice was barely audible. ‘Five, four, three, two … Carrie?’

  Yumatov reached for the knife. Lydia shouted: ‘No. Stop.’ The guard struck her hard and she reeled back.

  ‘Come, Carrie,’ said Yumatov. ‘Let’s move the chairs closer so you can choose which finger you are causing this innocent little boy to lose.’ He raised the knife. Rufus’ cry cut through the room. It undulated loud, then soft, loud again, a whimper, a scream. Yumatov’s hand stopped, the knife hovering just as automatic-weapons fire burst just outside the window. Carrie hurled herself forward bringing Rufus down onto the floor.

  FORTY-TWO

  Salmiyarvi, Murmansk Oblast, Russia

  As they drove through Salmiyarvi, Rake made out a handful of low-rise buildings next to a frozen river, no lights, and the shapes of small, squat houses back from the road. There was no one in sight, as he expected. The weather had become ferocious, which for Rake was an advantage.

  ‘Mikki and I can do this,’ he said to Nilla. ‘This isn’t your fight.’

  ‘You need me,’ Nilla replied.

  ‘Might get uncomfortable,’ added Mikki. ‘Rake and I are not trained in diplomacy,’

  ‘I’m your ticket in. They won’t fire on the Norwegian police.’

  Rake didn’t answer. It was decided. Lucas had supplied a floor plan posted by a real-estate agent twenty years earlier when the property must have been on the market. Three large rooms on the ground floor, a couple of smaller ones, a wide staircase, then bedrooms and on the top floor an open-plan space and a water tank. This was the location of Carrie’s phone but that didn’t mean she was there. Lucas had given them a description of the layout of the farmhouse and the geography, straight driveway from the road, grounds with a barn, two smaller buildings, a pond, an orchard of some kind, and beyond that woodland. Lucas had identified three guards at the front door of the property and two at a checkpoint at the entrance to the drive.

  Rake and Mikki armed up. The weapons were standard Norwegian special-forces kit, high quality, modern synthetic oil to withstand the cold, which had fallen to minus thirty.

  Rake and Mikki put on Kevlar jackets. Mikki chose a Heckler and Koch MP7 submachinegun and a .45 caliber pistol, making him more agile for knife work. He strapped an M72 light anti-tank weapon around his shoulders in case of an armored vehicle. Rake took a Heckler and Koch HK416 assault rifle and an attachable 40mm grenade launcher, together with a .45 caliber pistol. They put the rest in the rear compartment and locked it down. Yumatov’s people would have to tear the vehicle apart to get to it.

  They pulled on thin inner gloves, then mittens with flaps freeing their fingers to handle weapons. They wore sealskin jackets over thinner clothing, silk and wool with warm air trapped between layers. Finally, to keep in the heat, and give them less risk of exposure to thermal imaging, they wore balaclavas that covered head, face, neck, and shoulders. Ventilators over the face protected the lungs from frostbite and dissipated breath clouds from the mouth. They clipped on snowshoes to prevent them falling into unseen drifts.

  Nilla stopped a quarter-mile from the driveway entrance. The blizzard whipped against them as they got out. They tested the wind, tested the snowshoes. Mikki took the left side, Rake the right. He slapped the side of the vehicle. Nilla moved ahead at walking pace. In between squalls, Rake could make out a straight road, trees on Mikki’s side, white scrubland on his. Nilla’s headlamps reflected crazily, crystals melting on the lamp glass, freezing fog rolling through, beams bouncing off snow on telegraph poles and trees.

  ‘Checkpoint.’ Nilla’s voice in his earpiece.

  A Land Cruiser, engine running, was parked at the entrance to a driveway to the left. Two hundred yards along were three more Cruisers and the house. The weather roared in cycles, raging, then dropping, then raging again. Rake timed a lull and sighted four men
in a group under the balcony. He thought a dog was running behind the house, but it turned out to be three deer. Nilla kept going steady and slow. Rake dropped back, using the vehicle as cover. A flashlight came on from the passenger seat of the checkpoint Cruiser, shone right into the windscreen. Nilla stopped. Rake slipped away. A guard got out and walked to Nilla’s window. She let it down, bringing weather noise into Rake’s earpiece.

  The guard shouted in Russian. ‘No vehicles allowed!’

  Nilla showed her identity card. ‘I am Nilla Carsten, Norwegian Police Service, from Kirkenes. I am expected.’

  The guard spoke into a radio. Nilla looked ahead, unruffled, gloves resting lightly on the wheel. Rake made out one lamp in the grounds, near what must have been the front door. There was light coming from a corner room at the front, curtains drawn across, which could be where Carrie was; another light from the top of the house. The middle floor with the balcony was dark. The guard walked along the side of Nilla’s vehicle. He peered in, circling and coming back to her window.

  ‘Where is the American soldier Ozenna?’ he asked.

  ‘My instructions are to come to this house.’ Nilla drummed her fingers impatiently on the wheel.

  The guard returned to his radio. ‘She doesn’t know about an American soldier.’ The second guard opened his door to get out of the Land Cruiser. They both walked toward Nilla. In the next few seconds, Rake needed to decide if Nilla’s cover would hold.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked Mikki through the radio comms.

  ‘Copy,’ answered Mikki.

  The guard tried to open Nilla’s door. It was locked. ‘You need to come with us,’ he said.