Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  Deke Cooper laughed. “Set your mind at ease, pal. We are the CIA, but we don’t have any secrets left, thanks to Mister Snowden and other traitors over the years. Truth be told, we probably have not had a real secret since about 1956. The colonel has more than the necessary clearances, and Calico is his wife.”

  “Jesus Christ Almighty,” Kyle muttered and drank some coffee. “I’m going to get something to eat.” He needed to buy some time to think, so he went to the buffet and grew hungry as he went down the line. He loaded up and went back to the table. More coffee.

  After a few bites, he said, “Colonel, she introduced herself as Jan Hollings. Not the same last name as you.”

  “For the sake of her job, she didn’t take my last name.”

  “So how can I help the U.S. Army today?” he asked after tasting a warm slice of local bread.

  “Ivan Strakov,” replied ColonelMarkey. “My old enemy, Ivan Strakov.” The voice was soft but filled with purpose. He had intelligent brown eyes, a militarily correct posture, and a thick wave of sandy hair. “You are going to debrief him during the coming weeks, and I want you to let me know what he says. Through back channels, of course.”

  Swanson ate some eggs that had been scrambled with cheese and a mild spice. He shot a glance at Cooper. “Sorry, Colonel, I can’t do that. I don’t know what you have been told about me, but it’s wrong.”

  “You work for the CIA, Mister Swanson. Deke has cleared my request.”

  Kyle swallowed the food and chased it with coffee. Then he pushed back a bit from the table and checked the surroundings before speaking. The kitchen roar was continuing. “Now, guys, that is technically correct, but not exactly accurate. Things have gone off track. I do work with the CIA, but I am neither a spy nor an analyst, and Deke is not my boss. The only person to whom I answer is Martin Atkins, the deputy director for clandestine services, back at Langley. I do specific special assignments on rare occasions, and that is all. This whole thing of coming to visit Estonia was a surprise to me, and I don’t like surprises. I will be going back to the States as soon as possible.”

  Cooper did not lose his good mood. “You are flying to Brussels later today and will dance with Ivan. That’s firm. After that, who knows?”

  Kyle snorted and went back to the food. “I know what happens next, Deke. Brussels is the end of the line for me. After I corroborate Ivan’s story, then he is all yours. Stick him full of truth serum or shove apples up his ass to make him talk. I don’t care. I have to get back to work.”

  The colonel shot him a long look. “I know more about Ivan Strakov than you do, Swanson.”

  “No argument there, Colonel Markey. You probably do. I only knew him for a few weeks many years ago when he was just a sergeant, little more than a grunt with a rifle. I still am bewildered that he tabbed me to talk with when he defected.”

  The colonel finally showed some emotion. “What if I tell you that Strakov wasn’t a sergeant at the time, Swanson. Young Ivan was already an intelligence officer on assignment to evaluate and report on your Scout/Sniper program. I saw that you guys called him ‘Ivan the Terrible.’ The reason he could not shoot up to your standards is because he was never trained as a sniper at all. He was sent to join your course as a spy; he milked you like a cow.”

  * * *

  KYLE SWANSON STOPPED EATING and listened with growing incredulity as Markey gave him unexpected information, with Deke Cooper offering occasional side comments. After ten minutes, the breakfast adjourned and they all trooped up to Kyle’s suite for privacy. The two CID investigators stood guard in the hallway outside.

  Markey said that he had been Strakov’s “mirror.” Their careers had roughly run in parallel, on opposite sides of the strategic aisle, and they had parried frequently in both official and social settings. Ivan and Tom knew each other, but were not friends.

  “I never bought the story that he died in some little plane crash in Lake Baikal. Discarded that as soon as I heard about it. Ivan would never have taken such a chance. In that part of Russia, in this season, he would have been traveling aboard a transport with multiple engines. So I thought from the get-go that he was playing another one of his games.” The American colonel was looking from the hotel window as he spoke, as if watching spring bloom in Estonia. He was a worried man.

  “Swanson, you know now that I am posted here in Tallinn, right? The official title is as a senior fellow at the NATO Cooperative Cyber Defence Centre of Excellence?” The officer seemed to be growing nervous, talking to the window. “Have you wondered why that vital organization is located in this little burg of a country, right in the armpit of Russia?”

  “No. I had other things on my mind. Tell me about it.”

  Deke Cooper of the CIA took over. “The short version is that after the collapse of communism, Estonia was left with nothing. It had one point two million people and still had to do more than ninety percent of its trade with Russia. It was little more than a beggar state at the time. Estonia had one foot still in the nineteenth century, and one in the twentieth and both feet stuck in the mud. So the country made the radical move of betting the farm on the twenty-first century, and has since become an economic Baltic Tiger.”

  Swanson said, “I couldn’t tell that over in Narva. That place is Russian to the core.”

  Colonel Markey found a chair. “It is, but the country as a whole is leaving Narva behind. This is now one of the most wired places in Europe, and any kid who reaches high school without having developed his or her own app or start-up tech company is considered a slow learner, a social pariah and will probably never get laid. The Estonian government saw early on that computer science was the future. They built an infrastructure to support it, and now a lot of kids call their homeland ‘e-Stonia.’ Skype was not invented here by accident.”

  Swanson saw the pieces coming together. “And that makes the boys in Moscow uncomfortable?”

  “Better believe it. Back in 2008, there was a monster cyber-war hacking attack against Estonia, one of the biggest ever. It was of Russian origin, of course, although the Kremlin never admitted guilt. Everything over here was infected, spammed, or was virused like a plague. All it really did was make the Estonians work harder and get better at the game.”

  “Was Ivan Strakov part of that attack?” Kyle asked.

  The colonel nodded. “Yeah. It was his baby. He was deep in the background, but I recognized his shadow and fingerprints. He done it, Sherlock, which is another reason that I don’t trust that sonofabitch as far as I can throw a piano.”

  “And where do I fit into this picture? Like I told you both, I am not a spy. I am not a trained interrogator. I do other things.” Swanson was dizzy with this new information. “I plan to swing by Brussels, do the thing with Ivan, then go home and tend to my own business. Nothing you have said, while surprising and interesting, indicates that I should do otherwise.”

  Deke Cooper moved around, stretched, then folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned against a wall. “Fact is, Swanson, that the secret called Ivan Strakov has already leaked. Maybe he left a trail of bread crumbs, or a note, or who the hell knows, but the lid is already off of his defection. Moscow knows he has gone over to the other side, and Europe, NATO and Washington will not be able to contain it. Social media will have it within forty-eight hours. Think Snowden, man. Old Ivan is about to become a global celebrity.”

  Now the colonel finally showed some emotion. “Even if everything he tells us is true, Kyle, somebody has to be willing to call bullshit. This is a chance for you to get some payback on him. Deke and the alphabet agencies will do all the donkey work of the interviews and follow-up, but you could be on the inside, because he wants you there. For some reason we cannot decipher, he needs you once again. The whole thing is much too hinky for me, because Ivan Strakov is not a cowboy; everything he does has a reason. What I want from you is gut feelings. Get me the right information, and I’ll stop him.”

  “Or what?”

&
nbsp; “Or we go to war, probably.”

  “Another cyber-war between Russia and Estonia?”

  “No, Kyle.” The colonel’s face grew tense. “Real war. Russia against NATO, which includes the United States.”

  Swanson snapped a humorless laugh. “You guys want me to spy on the spy, then report straight to you instead of to my real boss at the CIA. Nothing wrong with that, Colonel, except it is borderline treason and I could end up in some supermax prison. Thanks for the chance to help save the world, but Deke and his boys are much more qualified for that sort of thing, so I pass. Get somebody else to carry that water. I’m going home.”

  11

  SWANSON TOOK AN EVENING Lufthansa flight out of Tallinn primarily because it was not Aeroflot. German efficiency and timeliness was to be trusted, while riding on a Russian commercial aircraft was never really a choice if there were alternatives. His arrival in Belgium was without incident, and the check-in at the downtown hotel was smooth. It was just another city, just another airport, just another hotel. Total routine.

  He had been provided with a new laptop computer and cell phone by Deke Cooper and the electronic equipment had been loaded by CIA techs with everything he might need. Brussels was six hours ahead of Washington, so the business day was just wrapping up on the other side of the Atlantic when he checked in with the office.

  “Things are kind of stacking up around here, boss. When are you coming back?” Those were the first words from Janna Ecklund, who was running the place in his absence. “You were supposed to be gone for just a few days.”

  “Hello to you, too. Anything urgent?” Swanson enjoyed bantering with Janna and knew she had everything under control. Her FBI career had trained her not to leave loose ends.

  “Sir Jeff is concerned because you were expelled from Finland. How does anybody get expelled from Finland? He wants to see you soon. You should give him a call. I’ve got some documents for you to sign. The people at XenTek Research in California are getting antsy for you to get out to Twentynine Palms for some new tests on Project Hydra.”

  “Use the electronic signature, or just forge my name,” he instructed. “Tell Jeff everything is good on our end. I will contact XenTek as soon as I get back to the office.” Hydra, a laser-guided bullet for a .50-caliber sniper rifle, was the latest invention coming off the drawing board from the skilled researchers and engineers of Excalibur Enterprises and its partners, and had a potential upside of millions of dollars in contracts.

  “So when will that be, going back to my original question?”

  “I will be in Brussels all day tomorrow, Janna. Then I have a direct flight straight into Dulles the day after.”

  “You sound tired.” She had no idea why he was in Belgium and knew better than ask to on an open line.

  “I am.”

  She laughed. “Stop whining. You can sleep when they’re dead, Jarhead.”

  “See you in forty-eight hours, Feeb.” He hung up.

  Janna was right. He was tired. Exhausted. It wasn’t the travel, but the saddle of concern that he was lugging around since the meeting with Colonel Markey and Deke Cooper. The colonel was a combat veteran with several tours in the Sandbox, so he was not one to panic in the face of a little adversity. The problems he laid out were bona fide, even without Kyle sharing his own observations from the trip over to Narva. He thought about Anneli, the girl he had rescued, and her Disappeared boyfriend, Brokk. He thought about the spy network being run by the colonel’s fashion-plate wife, Calico. He dialed his memory back even more and thought about the two goons who had tried to kidnap Anneli and kill him in the castle. Even wild combat usually has some meaning or discernible pattern to help it all make sense. He saw nothing in this mess.

  One more drink, some bourbon over ice cubes, and he peeled back the cool white sheets and crawled beneath the covers.

  * * *

  THE NIGHTMARE ASSAULTED HIM. He dreamed of grime and grit, hopeless desolation, the stench of oil coagulating on the water around the blackened hulks of ships, and the burned remains of vehicles and shattered human bodies. Gaunt and frightened columns of refugees, mangled soldiers with their guts spilled, and buildings in smoldering ruin beneath an evil sky full of choking smoke that blanketed the countryside. Television sets flashed scenes of carnage. Politicians in world capitals arguing about who started it, who would finish it and which flags would still be flying when the war was over. Timers counting off seconds to launch the nukes. Swanson tossed and turned in the big bed, and moaned aloud, as if his brain was in physical pain. He was dreaming of war.

  Out of the chaos in his mind appeared a figure who came to him almost like clockwork when things began to flood out of control. The singularly ominous figure was draped in black scraps, and steered a battered skiff with a single oar. The Boatman, as Swanson had come to know him over many years of the hallucinatory visits, was a herald of death.

  Three corpses sat in the long boat and their blank eyes were fixed on a horizon of fire. Kyle recognized them as the ISIS fool from Rome and the pair of careless assassins in Narva. In these dreams, the Boatman collected the souls of Swanson’s targets and ferried them off to hell. A sulfurous wind flapped the dark cloth as the bateaux coasted close and the Boatman stood there with his usual hideous grin.

  “We did not have an appointment here, Sniper,” came the hiss of a voice. “It was to be one from Rome, and yes, there he is in the front. Then you were to collect another in Cairo. I planned my schedule accordingly, only to have to change it.”

  Swanson replied. “I know the feeling.”

  “Change is uncomfortable, but I adapt. I had to add this pair from Narva to my roster because no other boats were available to pick up your droppings on such short notice.”

  The skiff rocked gently on imaginary waters. Kyle asked, “Why are you here?”

  The answer was quick. “I am here because you are my responsibility, and as I said, all of the other boats are busy. Ask me why they are all busy.”

  “Okay. Why are the other boats busy?”

  “They are being made ready for the Big One.”

  “The war, you mean? Don’t be so dramatic. There is not going to be a war.”

  The Boatman cackled. “No. That part is guaranteed. You will get it started. I have a lot of trust in your ability.”

  The stormy sky above the Boatman loosed forks of lightning that snapped and popped along the white-topped waves. Curtains of ash and rain followed. “Then you are wrong. I have one more quick assignment with no blood involved, and then I am safe and sound back home. No war.”

  Again the laughter seared. “Again, my gunnery-sergeant-turned-spy, you are not asking the right question.”

  Swanson’s mind swirled and in his sleep he felt dizzy and nauseous. “Then what is the right question, you bag of rags?”

  “Do not ask why I am here tonight. Ask instead what you are doing here.”

  Kyle felt as if he had been struck by one of those ominous thunderbolts. He lurched from the bed and fell to the floor with his head spinning and his stomach in spasm. Crawling to the bathroom, he heard the final echoes of the Boatman’s laughter as the nightmare released its hold. He made it to the toilet bowl and leaned over and vomited hard, and a foul smell rose from the water as the waste splashed in. He heaved again, then once more, and finally rolled to the chill tile floor. Reaching up, he managed to flush it away.

  Why am I here? How did Inspector Rikka Aura in Finland know to track me down?

  Swanson struggled to his feet, holding the sink to steady himself until the uneasiness faded. He wandered the room, turning the dream over in his mind, went to the window and looked out over the old city. Inspector Aura had said she had discovered he was aboard a CIA plane coming in from Rome because he went through Finnish customs on the military side of the Helsinki airport. That was a lie. Why did she check that in the first place? It was not an uncommon thing—diplomats and other officials wanting to remain out of public view did exactly the same
thing on a daily basis. Picking up on his name could not have been accidental.

  His eyes closed and he drank some more whiskey and slammed the tumbler down hard on the wooden windowsill: She knew that he was coming! She had been told in advance! There was a fucking leak!

  He put the pieces together. Swanson went to Finland only because Ivan the Terrible had popped into the U.S. Embassy in Helsinki, and would only talk to Kyle. Inspector Aura from the Finland Security Intelligence Service had no previous idea of who he was, but she was expecting him that night. Then she expelled Swanson immediately, swooping down without so much as a protest from the U.S. Embassy. Her action had spurred Kyle to move quickly, and he had decided to follow Ivan’s instruction to go to Estonia. Kyle had done so, as compliant as a puppet on a string. He remembered the colonel’s warning about how Ivan always played games and always had a reason for everything he did.

  Swanson went to the sink and washed his face and brushed his teeth, then staggered back to bed. He had been used and had not even noticed.

  * * *

  KYLE SWANSON DID NOT go to the massive central NATO headquarters complex in Brussels the next morning. Instead, still another CIA type met him in the hotel lobby and drove him northwest into the lightly populated municipality of Koekelberg. The small, out-of-the-way part of the central region of the metropolis was ideal for the safe house that was an entire building only a few blocks from the huge Basilica of the Sacred Heart. Another anonymous company escort waiting at the elevator in an underground garage checked his creds and then took him past a guard with a submachine gun and up to the second floor. Nobody said a word.

  He had not made up his mind on how to handle this meeting with Ivan Strakov and was still measuring the variables when he stepped into a neat little conference room. After having listened to Colonel Markey and being visited by the Boatman, Kyle was seething with anger at the Russian for having duped him back in the sniper school days. Balancing that personal affront was the fact that it was only Swanson’s ego being bruised for that one. After all, Ivan was just doing his job as an intelligence officer, and he had not learned any secret material because he flunked out before getting very far along in sniper training. But after the strange, brief visit to Finland and the deadly trip to Narva, Kyle was certain something serious was going on, and the Russian was part of the mystery, so it was worth hearing what he had to say. Some day in the future, perhaps, he could get Strakov alone and beat the crap out of him just for old time’s sake. For now, Swanson knew he should remain cool, listen to what the defector had to say, then dump the whole matter onto someone else’s desk. He would prove the Boatman wrong this time.