“I still think you look goofy when you get all dolled up like a Eurotrash gigolo,” Dan Laird said, chewing a toothpick while driving Kyle to the Ciapino airport. Cars and trucks and motorbikes passed in an unending river, and the eyes of the two agents snapped through the throng, always looking for potential trouble. In Rome, they mostly saw only Italian men in suits puttering along on scooters with pretty girls clinging to their waists.
“Still feels strange, too. I can still kick your butt, though.”
“Never happen. And I would not want to get blood on your pretty shirt. Where you going, or can I ask?”
“You can ask, but I’m not supposed to tell you, which is easy because I don’t know myself.” The car radio was droning some anonymous instrumental and Kyle punched the audio system to scan for an all-news station off the satellite. He found one, but there was nothing out of the ordinary; not even a report yet about their hit in Rome. No mention of Ivan Strakov.
A Gulfstream V jet, a bland bluish-gray machine almost invisible in the ground clutter of any airport, had its engines humming when they arrived at the combination civilian and military facility, where a pair of uniformed enlisted men placed the expensive luggage in the bird’s cargo hold with a great deal more care than they would have shown ordinary bags. Swanson stepped aboard, hung up his coat, picked out a comfortable seat, stuffed his laptop overhead and strapped himself in; the hull was sealed and the plane began to taxi. Dan Laird, with a placid, almost bored, look on his face, peeled the plastic wrap from another toothpick and watched the little jet climb into the sky and disappear.
When it finally reached altitude and steadied into a course, Kyle knew they were headed north. That was not very helpful, since most of the entire boot of Italy lay north of Rome, and then Europe, and eventually, the North Pole. The flight could be going anywhere. He got his laptop down and plugged it into a charger in the armrest, opened the word processing program, found the folder containing information on the new company’s polymer-encased bullet experiment.
Excalibur Enterprises was on the cutting edge of weapons development, and any possible reduction of weight was always an attractive element for a soldier. The average American infantryman, when all geared up with comms, ammo, batteries, pack, water, rifle and other necessary items, carried about as much weight as a medieval knight’s suit of armor. Having lugged more than his share of tonnage around a battle zone, Kyle knew how those loads seemed to increase at every step. Trimming fractions was important, and plastic cartridges were not only lighter than brass, but cheaper, too. Excalibur could reap another fortune if it could get the bugs worked out and the patents approved.
His challenge was to report back to his boss-mentor and surrogate father, Sir Geoffrey Cornwell, the CEO of Excalibur, without leaving a word trail that might connect the company to today’s murder. Having questions asked in Parliament or by a congressional investigating committee was to be avoided.
The locked door to the pilot’s compartment clicked open, and Swanson looked up casually as a pilot in a U.S. Air Force flight suit stepped through, turned and locked it again. The major, on loan to the Central Intelligence Agency, wore no name tag. Kyle closed the laptop lid.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” the flier said, leaning on the seatback in front of Kyle. “Take off your tie and make yourself comfortable. Drinks are in the aft refrigerator, including some of the harder stuff. Blankets are stowed in the overhead. We’re going to be flying for several hours, so I am required to run through the emergency procedures for all passengers: If we crash at six hundred miles per hour, we’re all going to die. It would be appreciated if you wouldn’t scream a lot on the way down, because we will be busy up front with the parachutes.”
“Thanks for that information, Major. You filed a flight plan, correct?” Swanson cocked an eyebrow.
“Yes, we did.” The pilot walked back and grabbed a soda. “Want one of these?”
“Not right now. So it’s not really a secret about where the plane is going, right? I know we are heading north, but that course could change at any time.”
The pilot laughed, then took a pull of the cold drink. “No longer a secret, sir. We will continue on this heading all the way to Helsinki, tracked by the radars of about a half-dozen countries en route. There is no mystery to a straight line. Anyway, that’s where you will get off. Other than that, I don’t know nothing.”
“Finland.”
“An unusual destination, if I may say so.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Lots of blond young ladies and saunas. That could be a nice combination.”
“Do pilots ever think of anything other than airplanes and sex?”
“What else is there?” The pilot grinned, turned and went back to steering his sleek contraption through the sky.
Kyle thought: Finland? He turned his attention back to the computer keypad and resumed drafting his carefully-worded report.
* * *
HE DID NOT REMEMBER drifting into the dreamless sleep, because he was exhausted after the long day that had started before sunrise in Rome. It was about midnight, local time, according to a clock on the bulkhead, when the pilot woke him up by announcing on a speaker in the main cabin, “Prepare for landing.” Kyle went to the bathroom and washed his face and straightened his clothes, then he buckled back into the seat as the Gulfstream slid gracefully down over the dark Baltic Sea and touched down at the Helsinki-Vantaa International Airport. The aircraft rolled for a while to reach the military sector, which gave him time to pack away the computer, and check for his cell phone, wallet and cred pack.
The hatch opened to become a short stairway, and waiting at the bottom was a giant in an unbuttoned overcoat. He stood at least six-six and with the fur hat, he was about a foot taller than normal people, had a square jaw and a big chest. The man asked in a gravelly voice that came from a mouth that might break if he smiled, “Are you Swanson?”
“Yes.” He knew the open coat would provide the man with easier access to a sidearm. Kyle wondered why that was necessary. Swanson was without a weapon of his own, and he considered that the man was a trained professional who had to weigh north of 260. “Who are you?”
“This way.” The question was ignored as the escort stalked away toward a row of buildings. Most of the windows were dark, although the city lights lit the sky behind. To one side, a ground crew was working on an F/A-18 Hornet fighter outside a hangar and the pungent smell of jet fuel hung in the night air. Spring had not yet come to Finland in the first week of April, and Swanson felt the penetrating bite of wind freshly chilled from crossing the Arctic Ocean. By the time they reached the door, he was ready to go inside to just escape the weather. The big man allowed him through first. Swanson heard the metal snick of the lock.
At a small table in the middle of a windowless room sat a man with jowls of a bulldog, eyes of a basset hound and a burr of steel-gray hair like a terrier. A manila folder was open and Kyle recognized an old picture of himself in uniform clipped to the front. “You’re Swanson,” the man said.
“I am. Who are you?”
“Sit.” It was a command, not an invitation.
Kyle was in no mood to be bullied. “No. I think I’ll leave now. I’m tired after the long trip.”
“You are not going anywhere,” the man at the table brusquely commanded, and the big escort stepped to block the locked door. “Not until you answer some questions.”
“I need to make a call first.” Swanson lifted his cell phone from his pocket, wrapping it in his hand so the bottom edge was visible.
“No calls until we’re done. Hand over your cell.”
“No.”
“Take it away from him, James.”
The large man reached forward. Swanson did not hesitate, for he knew that if that grizzly ever laid one of those big paws on him, the fight would be over. Kyle stepped inside as quickly as a snake, lashed out with his right fist, using the hard corner point of the phone like a set of brass knuckle
s. He whipped it hard into the man’s mouth, gouged the bottom of the nose and then skidded it up to the right eye. When Swanson’s right arm reached its full length, he hammered the phone point hard against the stunned man’s temple, jerked him forward, kicked the right knee, and rode him down as he collapsed on his face. Swanson jerked the collar of the overcoat down over the shoulders to impede the arms, but the fight had already gone out of the man, who was woozy and semiconscious by the surprise attack. A quick search turned up a snubby Sig Sauer P229R in a belt holster and the gold and blue badge of a U.S. Diplomatic Security Service special agent.
The man behind the table had jumped to his feet during the two-second fight, his hands waving, and surprise written large on his face. “Whoa! Whoa-up. Easy, there. No need for that.”
“Hell there isn’t.” Swanson held the 9mm pistol loosely. “Put your weapon and your identification on the table. Go slow. Left hand only. Do it!”
“You just assaulted a federal agent. I should arrest you.” The older man awkwardly spread out a worn leather cred case that contained the same kind of badge, and dropped another SIG on it.
“You’re both DSS? I might have shot you.” Swanson tossed the 9 mil pistol onto the table, reached over, grabbed the bleeding agent’s elbow and pulled up. “Come on, big guy. Go to the bathroom and stuff a towel on your face. It’s just a busted nose and a black eye, and maybe a torn ACL. You’ll live.”
The man stumbled to his feet, holding a hand to his bleeding nose. Instead of throwing another punch, he grinned. Special Agent Lem James did not lose many fights, had never given up his gun or his badge, and admired the quick, sure moves of the man who had just laid him out without breaking a sweat. “Thanks,” he said. “Good idea with that phone thing.” He limped away.
Kyle sat down, and the older agent did the same. The fire had been doused. “Why didn’t you identify yourselves?” he asked.
“That was my call. A mistake, as it turns out.” He adjusted his clothing, as if he had been interrupted at dinner. “I’m Bob Carver, the RSO at the Helsinki embassy. That is Special Agent Lem James in the bathroom.”
“You knew I was on that plane, so you know I’m CIA.”
“Yeah, Swanson.” The DSS regional security officer patted the folder. “I know all about you, at least according to your personnel file, which has been filled with empty pages and scrubbed until it is virtually useless. I know only that you were born in Boston, spent a lot of years as a Marine, won a Congressional Medal of Honor, are a stone killer and think that rules don’t apply to you. I do not know whether to trust you.”
Swanson grunted. “That street goes both ways. Why didn’t somebody from the CIA meet me?”
“I called in a personal favor to get a look at you before letting you step into my embassy. Since I work for the state department, that’s my turf, and you spooks are all just visitors who come and go.”
The big man came back into the room, a drenched towel held against the right side of his face, and took the third chair at the table. “Going to have to send my overcoat to the cleaners because of the bloodstains. Think you chipped my tooth, too, you fuckin’ little monster. I saw stars.” The words came in a friendly tone, professional muscle acknowledging another professional.
“Sorry,” Kyle said. The man waved it off, refolded the towel and placed it back against the bruised and swelling cheek. To the RSO: “What do I need to do to make you believe that I can be trusted?”
“You passed that mark when you didn’t blow my ass away a minute ago. Anyway, my core problem is that I already have a very strange character, a total walk-in, cooling his heels at the U.S. Embassy right now. He is a smooth bastard who says his name is Ivan Strakov, and that he is a Russian intelligence operative. He won’t say anything else, and claims he will only talk to Kyle Swanson. I sure as hell don’t know or trust him, and putting the two of you together wasn’t going to happen until I was satisfied that it all isn’t some setup. Understand?”
Swanson nodded as his memory pulled up Ivan Strakov. It was so long ago that the picture was fuzzy. “OK. That makes sense. I haven’t seen or heard from this guy in about twenty years, back when I was in the Marines and he was an enlisted man in the Russian naval infantry. I have no idea what he has been doing since then, or why he picked my name out of the hat. Let me ask: Is he in a rush, or nervous, or acting urgent?”
Carver put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling briefly. “No. Like I said, he is cool. Just waiting to see if you turn up. We have him in a private little facility within the embassy right now and are treating him well.”
Kyle nodded again, coming to a decision. “I don’t want to deal with the Russian tonight. I started early today way down in Italy and have ended it brawling with Shrek here, and I’m bushed. Let me get some sleep before starting the game tomorrow morning.”
Bob Carver agreed. “Just watch your six while you’re in town, Swanson. The place is crawling with Russian intel people. Tensions are high.”
“I’ll drive you to the hotel,” said Lem James, throwing aside the bloody towel. “You need to buy me a drink to make amends.”
3
HELSINKI
A MESSAGE WAS WAITING when Swanson checked into the Hotel Kämp on the Norra Esplanaden. He signed the registration, directed that his luggage be placed in his suite and went to join Lem James at a back table in the bar that overlooked the sweep of a park reaching down to the waterfront. The place did not close until one in the morning, so they had about an hour. James had already downed his first Mannerheim’s shot and had one of the icy vodka blends waiting for Kyle. The glass was filled to the very brim, a local custom that made sure everyone received an equal pour. It packed a kick.
Colonel Max Piikkilä will be delighted to meet with Mister Swanson of Excalibur Enterprises at 1400 hours at the Ministry of Defence—Janna.
Kyle let James also read the note, then put it back in the envelope. “Now I have an official reason for being here. I’m just a salesman peddling product to the country’s director of procurement of defense matériel.”
“You may not be through at the embassy by then,” James commented, then ordered another round of Mannerheims.
“No choice, Lem. I’m no spy. I’m a specialist, like an independent contractor, on call when needed. Otherwise, I am a businessman. The Agency and my office manager, Janna, apparently set up this meeting on the fly to give me at least a bit of legitimate cover. I will take a break from the embassy thing if necessary, go over there, do a dance and sing my song about why Finland needs to spend a bunch of money on our latest techno-gear. Then I can go back to the embassy.”
James ticked at his sore tooth with a fingernail. He had a gauze patch taped to his nose, and the cheek bruise was getting blue. It didn’t seem to bother him. “The colonel may be in the market for more upgrades than you realize. The Russians are doing unwelcome flyovers, and the bastards live almost right across the street. St. Petersburg is less than two hundred miles from where we are sitting.”
“I saw a Hornet parked out at the airport,” said Kyle.
“The Finns are repositioning a lot of military assets, although they won’t go to war against Russia. No way.” He drank off the second vodka shot, ordered a third. “Who is Janna?”
“Janna Ecklund, who runs our Excalibur office in Washington. She is a former FBI agent who keeps a Glock 19 strapped beneath her desk. She’s also with the Agency.” The thought gave him an idea. Janna was from this neck of the northern woods and might be a good backup if this thing dragged out. She also spoke Swedish and looked like an ice princess. Might fit right in.
“So what were you doing down in Rome?”
“Same thing. Trying to convince the Italians to buy more Excalibur product. We’re working on a nice polymer-encased .50-caliber bullet and some new software. They seemed interested.”
The DSS agent’s eyes narrowed. “We got word last night that an ISIS terrorist, an American, was whacked in Rom
e by a sniper. No suspects.”
“Is that right? Good. The asshole probably needed dying.” Kyle emptied his shot glass, flipped it upside down and pinned it hard on the napkin. “I’m going to bed, Lem.”
“I’ll pick you up out front at nine o’clock. Then I go see the dentist.”
* * *
IVAN THE TERRIBLE. WHY is Ivan Strakov asking for me? Kyle barely knew the guy except for that brief, inconclusive time at the Scout/Sniper School so many years ago. Swanson puttered around with the question after hitting the cushy bed in a room in which the floorboards squeaked from the grandeur of the really old days.
Back when he gave Ivan the bad news that he was never going to make it as a sniper, Kyle had taken the young Russian sergeant out for a night to drown his sorrows. Russia was a pioneer in the sniper game; their sharpshooters had turned the German siege of Stalingrad into a nightmare for the Nazis and laid the groundwork for snipers in urban combat. A lot of those lessons were still being taught today, and Swanson had praised that long history for the disappointed Russian. Kyle explained, over about the sixth beer, that back in the rubble of that bloody, freezing siege, Strakov probably would have been hailed as a hero. He was that good, but “that good” was no longer good enough.
Ivan’s accent that night had drawn the attention of a couple of girls in the country-and-western bar. Kyle bought him a cowboy hat, which Ivan jauntily tilted forward, and the ladies taught him the Texas two-step while a pair of fiddles fueled the music. Swanson explained that being an elite sniper in the next century, which was fast approaching, meant being able to do precision fire from extremely long ranges, not just across the bombed-out tractor factory. Shots of more than a mile were going to be commonplace, and so many things could bugger up the target picture at those distances that only the best eyes and steadiest nerves need apply. Even then, computers that had not yet been invented would be needed.
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