Man on Edge

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Man on Edge Page 25

by Humphrey Hawksley


  Harry called Frank Ciszewski. The CIA Director was in the Situation Room in the White House in direct contact with President Merrow, who was on the presidential plane just landed at Kirkenes airport. On his news feed, a presenter was making the point that this was not the traditional Air Force One Boeing 747, but the Boeing C-32A usually allocated to the Vice-President which, with maximum reverse thrust, could handle the short Kirkenes runway. The President would stay on board until he and Lagutov could drive together to the dock. Lagutov, too, was using a smaller version of the regular presidential Ilyushin-96 and was due in soon.

  News reports switched to the Dynamic Freedom exercises with rare shots of troops at work in command centers, generals and admirals giving interviews, and dozens of NATO vessels gathered at sea, including American, Russian, and European submarines whose locations had been declared to safeguard the summit. Never before had a military exercise been conducted with such apparent transparency.

  ‘Harry, we’re up against it here. This had better be good,’ said Ciszewski as he came across the line.

  ‘Ozenna has reached Carrie Walker,’ said Harry. ‘It’s a hostile situation. We need to delay the President until we get them back across the border.’

  ‘Merrow wants to get this done now.’ Ciszewski carried irritation in his tone.

  ‘Carrie Walker has Semenov’s drive,’ said Harry. ‘Its data could expose a danger about the summit.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Vessel identification linked to Dynamic Freedom. The summit is insecure. An hour. That’s all I’m asking. We can upload immediately Ozenna crosses the border.’

  ‘I doubt Merrow will go for it.’ Ciszewski let out a long, tired audible sign. ‘But I’ll try.’

  Harry was certain Ciszewski would not push it. He called Stephanie, looking out toward the yacht in case he could spot her among the crush of dignitaries visible inside the yacht’s stateroom. Stephanie answered. He saw her edging to a window, giving him a short wave.

  ‘Ozenna has reached Carrie,’ said Harry.

  ‘Thank God! Is she OK?’

  ‘As far as we know. They have a vehicle. They could be at the border within thirty minutes. Can Grizlov keep it open?’

  ‘That’s the agreement. Until the end of the current border guards’ shift. Why would it close?’

  ‘There’ve been casualties. Several dead.’

  ‘Jesus, Harry! Who?’

  ‘Yumatov’s people. There were firefights. Yumatov escaped in a helicopter. Frank Ciszewski’s asking Merrow to delay so we can see what Carrie has. Merrow probably won’t agree. So, lean on Grizlov to keep his President back until we give the all-clear.’

  ‘Delay much more and you won’t have dignitaries left. They call this a stateroom, but it’s no more than a private living room crammed with a hundred people. I’ll pitch it, but I have to tell Sergey what’s happened.’

  ‘Tell him Yumatov’s guys fired on the Norwegian police.’ Harry closed the call, glanced inquiringly at the technician, who shook his head and kept working his keyboard. The drone feed was still down.

  Harry’s personal laptop emitted a buzz alerting him that his facial-recognition scan of Ruslan Yumatov had finished another level of penetration, constructing a pattern of Yumatov’s travels and whom he had met. He accessed sites on the dark web and used Chinese and Russian software, technically illegal in the United States because of its power in penetrating facial-recognition identities. The scan scoured every accessible server for matches of Yumatov’s face anywhere in the world.

  Harry scrolled through. Over the past two years, Yumatov’s work had taken him on a jet-set lifestyle, hotel suite to airport lounge to conferences, lectures, and military academies, mostly with his wife, occasionally with another woman. The software cross-referenced those Yumatov had been with, resulting in thousands of identifications which it prioritized and narrowed down. The speed of technological development continued to amaze Harry and injected a new danger that he least expected. Even though comms were down, he pressed the microphone button to try again. ‘Sword Edge. Sword Edge. This is Excalibur. Come in, Sword Edge.’

  Nothing.

  Harry felt a rush of blood flow through his neck. He found his hands trembling as he called Frank Ciszewski for the second time in the space of a few minutes, this time through a video link.

  ‘What now?’ Ciszewski wiped his glistening brow with a white handkerchief.

  ‘You need to see this.’ Harry shared surveillance images of Yumatov in hotels around Europe, some grainy, some barely recognizable, some blotches and shapes identified only by computer-generated subtitles. He needed to stagger the information to ensure Ciszewski did not automatically dismiss it. ‘These are Yumatov’s confirmed locations. The dates match his travel itinerary.’

  ‘A Russian military officer traveling around Europe is not unusual.’ Ciszewski’s tone was impatient.

  ‘But this.’ Harry moved to a new set of images. ‘The same person with him in all those places. Going into a hotel room together. Getting out of a car in another. Meeting in a foyer?’

  ‘So, he’s having an affair. What’s your point, Harry? Who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Nilla Carsten. She is with the Norwegian police—’

  ‘The Russians and the Norwegians meet at conferences all the time.’

  ‘Nilla Carsten is with Ozenna right now in Russia. Frank, you have to alert Merrow. You have—’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything.’ Ciszewski’s large, hanging chin moved up and down as he answered. ‘You want to be down there right now in the Situation Room, Harry? We’ve got threats coming in by the bucketload. You’re getting too close to this. Step back. Think clearer. Handle it until this summit is done. Then we’ll talk.’

  ‘No, Frank. Now.’ It was Harry’s turn for impatience. ‘Nilla Carsten has met Yumatov in four locations in Europe in the past two years and right now she is with Rake Ozenna, who is extricating Carrie Walker from Russia. I can’t raise him because the Russian military is jamming our comms. That’s not coincidence, Frank. This is Yumatov running rings around us.’

  FORTY-SIX

  Nikel, Murmansk Oblast, Russia

  Ruslan Yumatov removed his flak jacket and examined two welts on the Kevlar that had saved his life. He was lucky. He should have anticipated Ozenna’s ruthlessness. But Nilla Carsten would make sure they would not cross into Norway, and his priority was to contact Andrei Kurchin on the Kasatka in the Barents Sea. To even get a short message to a shallow depth underwater needed a powerful military-grade transmitter, and Yumatov had set up a direct line to the navy’s very low frequency transmission site just outside of Severomorsk. The contact would be only one way. The submarine could not message back.

  The Kasatka, Northern Fleet, Russian Navy, Barents Sea

  Proceed. Andrei Kurchin read the one-word message and ordered the crew to begin cloaking procedures to disguise the signature of an underwater drone attached to the hull of the submarine.

  Codenamed Bear-1, the small unmanned submarine, twenty-four meters long and one point six in diameter, was the result of more than twenty years of research, mistakes, and ambition. It could operate half a mile underwater at speeds of up to sixty miles an hour. With a range of six thousand miles, it was designed to hit an American city with a nuclear warhead. Today, it was not nuclear-armed and its mission was to travel a short distance to destroy the Norwegian royal yacht, kill two Presidents, and create the chaos needed to structure a world order in Russia’s favor.

  Bear-1 had never been to sea. NATO had no record of its unique signature. Uncloaked, it would stand out as dangerous and unidentified amid the range of vessels in the Barents Sea. Both Russia and its enemies had technology that could cloak a submarine in an acoustic shield with a disguise mechanism whereby it appeared to be another vessel. The Russian Bear-1 underwater drone was programmed to emit the signature sounds of HSwMS Halland, the diesel-powered Swedish Gotland-class submarine that Kurchin had sunk
hours earlier. Sweden was not a member of NATO, therefore there was less sharing of military databases. But Sweden was taking part in Dynamic Freedom with its status as an Enhanced Opportunity Partner. The Halland provided Kurchin with the prefect false identity.

  If the data drive reached Norway, Bear-1’s real identity would be revealed within seconds. Kurchin trusted his friend to stop Rake Ozenna crossing the border, just as Yumatov trusted Kurchin to accomplish his mission of assassinating the two Presidents.

  ‘Completed, sir,’ said the chief engineer.

  Kurchin now needed a second message to confirm that the two Presidents had boarded the Norwegian royal yacht.

  Royal Yacht Norge, Kirkenes, Norway

  Stephanie Lucas sensed the increasing impatience of the dignitaries crammed inside the homely stateroom of the Norwegian royal yacht. There was a high number of military uniforms. The latest to arrive was the NATO Secretary-General, who had visited the British aircraft carrier HMS Queen Elizabeth, where he was met by the First Sea Lord and the Chief of Naval Staff. They had taken a helicopter to the carrier USS Harry S. Truman to link up with the American Chief of Naval Operations. All made it on board just as a new blizzard confined the two Presidents to the terminal at Kirkenes airport. There were also several heads of governments, mostly from smaller European countries, vulnerable to Russia, circling Sergey Grizlov like moths, wishing him well in his quest for the Kremlin. Stephanie caught his eye, and he broke away for her.

  ‘They’re expected at the border in half an hour,’ she said.

  ‘Well done.’ Grizlov had a skill of completely honing his attention on whoever he was with.

  ‘If they’re late, can you keep it open for them?’

  ‘Will they be?’ Grizlov sipped his drink, which looked like champagne but was alcohol-free sparkling elderflower.

  ‘Yumatov’s men went rogue, opened fire on a Norwegian police vehicle—’

  ‘Fuck, Steph! You mean on Ozenna’s team.’

  ‘Traveling under the protection of the Norwegian police.’

  Grizlov turned toward the huge window. Outside, people were braving the cold, waiting to witness the arrival of the joint presidential entourage. ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘We had a drone. Not sure about your side.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Near a place called Salmiyarvi.’

  Grizlov’s eyes narrowed. ‘We have three hundred troops stationed in barracks there.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It could be to our advantage. Where’s Yumatov?’

  ‘His helicopter landed at Nikel. We’re trying to get Merrow and Lagutov to delay.’

  ‘Lagutov won’t.’ Grizlov tapped his phone. ‘As soon as I am officially notified of this beautiful mess, the border will have to close. Until then, I’ll do my best to make sure Ozenna’s team can get across.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Salmiyarvi, Murmansk Oblast, Russia

  ‘You need to leave with this now, Rake,’ commanded Carrie, pointing to the flash drive she had just pressed into his hand.

  ‘No,’ challenged Rake. ‘We all go.’

  ‘We can’t all go, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you fuck around worrying about Mikki and me.’ Carrie spoke in the tone Rake had heard a hundred times before; no room for argument. This was what Dr Carrie Walker deemed would happen.

  Mikki Wekstatt lay wounded but conscious on a mattress in the front corner room of the farmhouse. He had two injuries, one close to the femoral artery on his right leg. Another had torn the Achilles tendon on his left ankle. His Kevlar jacket had stopped rounds and shrapnel. Carrie had found a military first-aid kit, treated him with a tourniquet and clotting agent, and got Mikki to concentrate his mind by reading fairy stories to Rufus.

  Carrie and Rake had had a reunion of sorts, but not like in the movies with rainbows and music. Rake yelled at her to stay down, ran across and flung himself in the snow next to her, his arm firmly across her back like a straitjacket strap. Their eyes met. For a fraction of a blink there was something between them. But the first words she said to him were: ‘I’ve got it.’ They reverted to skillsets, things they both understood. They lifted Mikki into the house. Carrie fixed Mikki up while Rake and Nilla checked the vehicles. The Russian Cruisers were shot up, tires blown, windows smashed, high-velocity rounds in the engine. Nilla’s armored Cruiser had come through better. Carrie walked out to them, Nilla shone a flashlight in her face, moved closer to Rake, and rubbed her hand affectionately down his back.

  ‘Mikki needs a hospital,’ said Carrie.

  The closest hospital was Nikel, but that would mean surrendering to the Russians. The best hospital was Kirkenes. That would mean getting Mikki across the border.

  The weather kept chopping and changing. In a sudden lull, visibility cleared. If Yumatov’s men were still around, they could get a clear night-vision shot. Rake led them inside. It was then, as soon as they were back in the house, that Carrie dropped the flash drive into Rake’s hand and told him to leave her with Mikki and deliver it. But there was no way he would let them stay in this house with the Russian bodies freezing over in the grounds acting as lightning rods for revenge. When Rake objected, Carrie stepped close to him, her face up against his, eyes straight into his. ‘Don’t fuck around, Rake. You came for this, not for me. They’re not going to kill us. Yumatov’s finished. Mikki and I can wait it out.’

  ‘We all drive to the border crossing.’ Rake stamped ice off his boots.

  ‘No way that will work,’ dismissed Carrie. ‘What, with a patient with gunshot wounds?’

  ‘Carrie drives Mikki and the boy,’ said Nilla, peeling off her hat and goggles that were hitched above her head like sunglasses. ‘I take Rake across the lake and through the fence.’

  ‘They’ll still stop us,’ said Carrie.

  ‘I’m good at what I do.’ Nilla pulled off her gloves and ran her finger down a map on her phone screen. ‘The border itself is only two miles west of here. We can be in Norway within the hour. At the end of this road is the lake where we should get a Norwegian phone signal. I call through and alert them that you’re coming.’ She looked up at Rake with a smile. ‘And I’ll call my brother Stefan and he’ll guide us to a safe gap in the fence.’

  ‘And the road crossing?’ asked Carrie.

  ‘Twenty miles north. You could be there in half an hour. They might waive the police vehicle. More likely they will stop you. But by then, I should have got through to our people on the other side.’

  Mikki shouted from the front room. ‘We’ll be fine, Rake. I can’t walk, but I can shoot.’

  Mikki lightened the mood, but no one spoke. Silence clawed the air. They waited for Rake’s decision. Nilla made sense, high-risk, the only way through, an hour, possibly less, the same for Carrie. The border could be difficult, but there would not be shooting. They laid Mikki on the back seat of the cruiser. He insisted on being propped up with weapons in case there was trouble. Carrie strapped Rufus into the front and took the wheel. Rake stood by her open window. He leaned in and wedged a pistol between the pack and her seat. Carrie took his head between her hands, drew him to her and kissed him, not like a brother but like she used to, slowly and softly on the lips.

  ‘Thank you.’ She squeezed both hands through his gloves. ‘Sorry I yelled at you.’ Without giving Rake time to respond, she reversed and headed out of the driveway.

  Rake and Nilla dressed for the cold. They gathered weapons and ammunition from the dead. He tried contacting Lucas again, first through his phone which still showed no carrier and then by the satellite line which showed a strong signal. There was no response.

  Rake secured both phones in his jacket and zipped the flash drive into an inner pocket. The weather was coming back, uneven wind, blackness in clouds, fresh snow swirling like leaves. He covered his face and pulled down his goggles. Nilla did the same. She handed him a pouch and a small canister of water. They clipped on snowshoes and set off down the driveway. He he
ld back out of earshot away from the sound of Nilla’s tread. He listened for aircraft or vehicle engines. Nothing. He looked for moving lights. None. He slipped off his goggles and examined the long black driveway flanked by snow-laden trees and weather-twisted telegraph poles. An icy tang of fresh snow fell on his face. He followed the tall, confident shape of Nilla up ahead. Wind gathered, then dropped, then strengthened again, so loud that he could only hear its howl. Then, in the quiet, he could hear only the crunch of his snowshoes and, if he allowed it, the pounding of his heart in his ears.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Norwegian frigate Thor Heyerdahl, Kirkenes, Norway

  ‘Visuals restored,’ the technician told Harry. ‘No audio.’ He flipped the main screen to the feed from the drone patrolling the border. Two figures shimmered in the greens, yellows, and reds of thermal imaging. The software showed their location and pinpointed the farmhouse. It tracked the path of the moving human images along the short driveway onto a road heading west and then down to a path that led towards frozen water straddling the Norway–Russia border. They were identified as Nilla Carsten and Rake Ozenna.

  The ice separating the two countries came through as a deep blue with a clear view of the fence on the Russian side. Nilla Carsten was forty feet ahead of Ozenna, walking quickly. Ozenna moved more cautiously, holding back, checking around, watching the sky. From the drone’s arc, Harry saw they were alone, no threat from the air, none on the road. Apart from the fence, they had an unimpeded line across the lake into Norway. Harry could see Rake, but he could not warn him.

 

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