Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  The harbor was just opening for the season. A number of small yachts and sailboats belonging to more stalwart sailors were already in the water, crowded together at night like a herd of resting swans. People moved about servicing them. The terminal office was closed. Two men in heavy parkas were standing near it when the taxi stopped in front. “Kyle! Over here!” called one.

  “Trevor?” He could not make them out fully in the darkness. The inner harbor was protected from big waves, but a stiff wind cut the night, making the men huddle in their heavy-weather coats. Swanson and Anneli felt the cold grip them.

  “The very same, mate.” The men drew closer.

  “Trevor,” said Swanson. “Good to see you. And Paul, glad you came along to keep this bugger in line.” He introduced Anneli to the captain and the senior mate of the Vagabond, the magnificent private yacht of Excalibur Enterprises. “Where’s our barge?”

  Trevor Dash whipped off his greatcoat and threw it casually around Anneli, almost losing her in its folds, then the four of them walked down a wide, paved pier. He explained, “We moored her on the far side of a cruise ship where there was plenty of space. Lucky for us they are not in full season yet.”

  The deep voice of Paul Lancaster spoke. “We’re ready to pull out as soon as you give the word. The boss sent along a few presents for you.”

  Anneli was disoriented. This was clearly a pair of British sailors, and they treated Kyle both as a friend and a superior. “What is happening?” she asked. They were moving along the big pier, leaving behind the private boats and sailing craft. Before her loomed the huge bow of a cruise monster that was tied firmly with ropes as large as her arms, and was as empty as a ghost ship. A dome of light bloomed on the far side.

  “This is going to be your new home for a while, Anneli,” Kyle said gently as a large seagoing yacht with a nose as sharp as a needle came into view. The blinding white Vagabond wore its disguise as a pleasure vessel perfectly well, but it was not pirate bait. It was the third yacht to bear the name as Sir Jeff kept upgrading. Vagabond was almost three hundred feet in length, had three raked decks with tinted glass all around, plus luxurious spaces below, and was tooled with state-of-the-art electronics and antiair and antiship missiles and other weaponry. It was a pretty thing that could take care of itself in a firefight. Every member of its crew was a veteran of the British armed forces and the Vagabond occasionally conducted quiet missions for the intelligence agencies of Great Britain and the United States, snooping deep into harbors where warships could not go. Sir Geoffrey Cornwell had dispatched it to Estonia after talking with Kyle.

  Anneli walked up a rubber-mat gangway and was ushered into a salon that seemed like a small club. People were at ease in sofas and chairs, talking among themselves. A large-screen television set was tuned to a chart that was linked to live surface radar sweeps. Every vessel within ten miles was logged electronically. A similar chart painted aerial activity. Not a club; a war room.

  Captain Dash made quick introductions, although almost the entire crew already knew Kyle Swanson and gave him a rowdy welcome aboard. Two rugged men turned from a window, both lithe and muscular. “Sir Jeff added these lads for the trip, Kyle. Thought they might be of some future use, eh? May I present Sar’nt Stanley Baldwin and Corporal Grayson Perry.”

  “SAS snipers, Mister Swanson. Temporary duty on loan to you, compliments of Her Majesty’s government.” Baldwin shook hands. He was in jeans and a heavy sweatshirt.

  “Heard a lot about you, sir. Pleasure.” Perry had eyes like a hawk.

  “Excellent. Good to have you aboard, guys,” Swanson said. “I don’t have a project in mind right now, so just hang out and we’ll see what happens. Things may get interesting before we’re done.”

  “At your service,” said the sergeant, who was checking out the girl beside Kyle. She was a beauty.

  Swanson gathered Dash and the senior mate together with the snipers. “There have been some changes ashore. Young Anneli and I are wanted by the Estonian cops for murder.”

  “Murder? Her?” Sergant Baldwin fought to keep his emotions in check.

  “Yes. I had to do away with a couple of Russian spooks who came after her, and they are blowing it up into an incident. She was supposed to go to a CIA safe house tonight, but I want to get her completely off Estonian soil. Nobody will know she is aboard the Vagabond. Now you two SAS dudes can be her guards for a while. Don’t let anybody take her away from you. And teach her how to shoot.”

  “We can do that.” Corporal Perry was quiet and confident.

  “And Captain Dash, I have to leave now and catch a flight to Brussels. You may take the Vagabond out of the harbor while I’m gone. Steer clear of the Russian ships, and work toward the general direction of the U.S. carrier strike group in the Baltic.”

  “Should we anticipate trouble, Kyle?”

  “I don’t know. Just act like this is some rich man’s toy for a few days. Keep your ears up. I’ll be in touch.”

  The captain bobbed his head, then ordered, “Master Samuelson, please make preparations for departure.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper.” The mate left to begin the process of getting the boat under way.

  Kyle put one hand on each of Anneli’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “There are no worries for you, not now. You know that I have to leave to go talk to Ivan.”

  She leaned close and hugged him. “Calico, I mean Mrs. Markey, will be angry at me again.”

  “Calico is always mad. I’ll deal with her. You stay out of trouble until I get back. And those guys you just met are your new shepherds. They are true warriors. Nothing is going to happen to you with them around.”

  “What if you need me, Kyle? Aren’t I a good partner?”

  He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, like a father kissing a daughter good-bye on a school morning. “Then I will come and get you. This isn’t over yet, Anneli. See you soon.”

  It was not until he trotted down the gangplank that he realized she had not mentioned Brokk.

  MOSCOW

  Vladimir Vladimiroch Pushkin wore lifts in his shoes because he stood only five-foot-five-inches tall. In televised appearances, the president of the Russian Federation surrounded himself with short men and usually stood on a platform behind the podium. He was sixty-five years old and physically active in sports, although age had stacked on a few flabby pounds that he could not shed. Despite his physical stature, he was still the biggest man in Russia.

  The sky had been a dark blue canopy when he had arisen before dawn on Tuesday morning and did his familiar set of judo exercises to loosen the muscles and tune up for the day. He had been doing judo since he was a child. The mandatory self-control and ability to read the strengths and weaknesses of an opponent had proven to be so useful in many walks of life. On a judo mat or at the United Nations, if a foe left a momentary unguarded opening, Pushkin would attack. Some snow had passed through Moscow while he slept, leaving a small and evaporating white carpet around the Kremlin. After the workout, he walked outside. It was still cold, even for mid-April, and the hardy weather pulled at his flesh and linked him with his ancestors who had prowled the Steppes. He ate a light breakfast, dressed and was in the office by seven o’clock.

  After the usual round of global and domestic situation and security briefings, his first official visitor of the day was an old friend, General of the Army Pavel Sergeyev, the chief of the general staff. Pushkin remained in the big chair behind the desk while the general, wearing a civilian suit, angled his body into one of the gold-fabric high-backs diagonally across from the president. They exchanged greetings. Both were from the Leningrad region, and while Sergeyev had been rising to the top job in the military, Pushkin had clawed his way up through the old KGB intelligence service. The partnership worked and they did many favors along the way as they adapted to become new Russians with old dreams.

  “What is on your mind, Pavel, that could not have been handled by telephone? I have a full schedule.” Pus
hkin held up a fan of papers and a flash of impatience crossed his face.

  “Volodya,” said the general, using the president’s nickname to calm him. “We may have to make a change in the western military district.”

  “The west? Why? I thought the commander in St. Petersburg was one of our best.”

  “Colonel General Levchenko has disobeyed our orders, Mister President. You instructed all of the commanders to remain cautious and undertake no provocative actions while we analyze the impact of the defection of the bastard traitor, Strakov. You remember that.”

  Pushkin removed his glasses and rubbed his nose in thought. “Yes. Yes, of course. No sudden moves.”

  General Sergeyev came out of his chair and clasped his hands behind his back, taking a few steps around the carpet. His voice carried a taste of venom. “Instead of obeying that simple directive, Levchenko chose to launch Operation Hermitage on his own. By doing so, he unveiled the new Armata systems for our enemies to see and record. Stupid man! Plus he authorized unnecessary overflights in the Baltic and along the Estonia border. NATO is probably ready to pull the trigger.”

  “Was there any shooting?” asked the president.

  “Fortunately, no. Not this time.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “We must discipline him severely, Volodya, my old friend. Colonel General Levchenko has become blinded by ambition. He is running his own kingdom out there in the western district while living like a tsar in St. Petersburg. He needs to be brought to heel.”

  “What do you suggest?” The president calmly wrote a note on a yellow pad.

  “I want to replace him with someone more reliable. We should bring Levchenko back to Moscow and make him work for a living at headquarters before he gets totally out of hand.”

  President Pushin adjusted his glasses and returned his attention to the papers before him.

  “No, I will not replace him, my friend. We will need a fighting commander out there in the coming tense times. Levchenko is impetuous, I grant you that, but he is an excellent field officer, which is why we gave him the job in the first place. I agree, however, that he probably needs to be reminded of his proper slot in the chain of command. I definitely do not like that he disobeyed our instructions. Pavel, I want you to order him back here so I can have a private word with him and clarify any misunderstandings he might have about his role.”

  The chief of the general staff smiled at that direct order. His reckless subordinate, Colonel General Levchenko, was about to have his ass chewed personally by President Vladimir Vladimiroch Pushkin.

  BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  The telephone in his pocket burped as soon as Kyle Swanson landed. The directory showed that DSS Agent Lem James up in Helsinki had called several times. Flying on the commercial aircraft meant Kyle could not use his cell phone while in the air, which had left him out of contact. Every other passenger also seemed to have phones in their ears as soon as the plane touched the earth.

  “Hey, Lem,” Swanson said in greeting. “What’s happening?”

  The agent’s voice was clear and calm, although the words were carefully chosen for the open circuit. “I talked to our Finny friend about that thing you wanted to know.”

  “And? Did she give it up?”

  “Between colleagues and good friends, she told me to blow it out my ass. She would not budge.”

  Inspector Rikka Aura of the Finland Security Intelligence Service was not cutting them a break. She would not give up her source for knowing exactly when and how Swanson had entered her country.

  “Do we have any leverage?”

  “None,” replied James. “She is stone. I’ll keep my ear to the ground up here.”

  “Roger that, Lem. Thanks for trying.” He dropped the phone back into his pocket, continued toward the exit and thought: Bitch!

  A small crowd was clustered at the arrivals hall to welcome friends, family and business associates. Corporate drivers in traditional black suits held name signs for incoming VIP passengers. Kids shouldered heavy backpacks, as if soldiers going off to war. Porters rolled luggage carts. Adults wrestled with suitcases.

  Out of the crowd of well-wishers sailed Jan Hollings, sparks of fire in her sea-blue eyes and her blond hair almost standing on end with her fury. She pointed to an isolated area and he followed. “Where the fuck is Anneli?” Calico demanded. “She never showed up at the safe house.”

  “Relax. She is perfectly fine. When you told us that we were wanted for murder, I made another plan. She is safe and secure and satisfied.”

  “Without telling me! I’m the one responsible for that girl. I demand that you tell me, right now!”

  Swanson’s implacable mask slipped and let his own anger show. “That’s not going to happen, Jan. There are hundreds of thousands of people in the intelligence chain of our country, and I know there is a leak. Probably dozens, maybe hundreds of leaks, and that doesn’t even get into the local police forces, where any secret is for sale. The fewer people that know her location, the safer she is. You just have to trust me on this one. I’m not going to let anything happen to her.”

  “Trust you? That’s a laugh. I don’t trust you. Nobody trusts you.”

  “And I don’t trust you, either, Calico, but it’s the nature of the job. You just push ahead to get those new identification papers for Anneli. When she is really needed, I will produce her. Not until then.”

  She gave him a look that could wither a cornfield, then caught a breath and changed gears. “You had better be right, you arrogant son of a bitch. If anything happens to her, I will scalp you. Now let’s get you back into that room with Ivan Strakov, where you were supposed to be all along.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

  17

  KOEKELBERG, BELGIUM

  THIS TIME, SWANSON RECOGNIZED the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, the landmark of the Brussels neighborhood, and the nearby brick-and-plaster building that was unchanged since he had last been there. Calico drove into the underground garage and Kyle went through the chutes-and-ladders identification routine to reach the interrogation room on the second floor. Colonel Ivan Strakov was already there in his chair, drinking a soda, no more nervous than a midlevel banking nerd figuring out how to best foreclose on a widow.

  Gone was the common orange jumpsuit, and instead he was in khaki pants and a soft brown sweater, with unscuffed Italian loafers on his feet. He was spending his first million, and planning on more. Swanson reached the table in a few steps, trading silent stares with the Russian. The man’s hair was newly trimmed and his nails were buffed and polished. On his left wrist bulged a large new watch with silver sweep hands on a black face and a little window that clocked the days. Overall, this was a man enjoying his special treatment.

  Strakov’s snake eyes flickered over Swanson, then he said, “Finally, my hero returns. I knew you would be back.” He sipped a Diet Coke.

  Swanson cleared his throat. “You are not the only thing happening in the world, Strakov. I had to talk to somebody else, somewhere else, about something else. Now it’s your turn again.” He would not give Ivan the satisfaction of an explanation, nothing that the Russian could use to play him. It was like walking through a mental minefield.

  “Good. Good.” Ivan scratched an ear. “I spent some of the downtime watching television. They let me do that now that I have proven myself, so I binge-watched all of Breaking Bad and I want to start Game of Thrones tonight. Hollywood is a wonderful dream factory.” He held up his left wrist to show the timepiece. “And I even went shopping.”

  “I noticed the new threads and kicks. Hell of a watch.” They had let him leave the house?

  “Of course. I am a guest here, not a prisoner.”

  Kyle crossed his arms and did not pursue the pampering issue. He had to trust that the CIA minders knew what they were doing; probably just fattening the cow to keep it happy before the butchering. “Whatever. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “And the
news shows, Kyle! I watch a lot of news,” Strakov said with a sharp look. “Things seem to be getting a bit tense out there.”

  Kyle thought, Damn it all! Going out into public and open television viewing? Outside information should not be allowed to reach this man. He remembered the crossword puzzle from last time. Newspapers, too? “Don’t believe the media, Ivan.”

  The colonel frowned. “Among the things I watched with interest were reports of a rather large Russian military exercise along the NATO border. Had you not run out on me, I would have warned you that it was coming.”

  “Sure you would.” He dodged the accusation. “You have been so forthcoming on everything. Anyway, the exercise was no big deal. The rabbits ran around for a while, and even now are scooting back into their holes, but not before we took pictures of your hotshot Armata tanks and battle platforms. Yesterday’s astonishing secret is old news now.”

  The defector remained infuriatingly smug. “Of course it is, Kyle. It was called Operation Hermitage, by the way, and it was a practice for defending St. Petersburg. The last tsar had his Winter Palace there, the Hermitage, which is now a magnificent museum. Hence the name. I really wanted to explain the exercise so NATO would not have been taken by surprise. You took off before I had the chance.”

  Swanson coughed into his fist. “You think that we are unaware that Moscow has forces lined up all the way down the border from Estonia, through Latvia and Lituania? There is no news there, buddy. Your President Pushkin would love to snatch those little countries back for his dream of rebuilding the Soviet empire.”

  Strakov glanced around the bare room to gather his thoughts before continuing. He smiled. “Consider it this way, Kyle. Suppose Louisiana or Texas broke away from the United States in some ill-considered revolution, but the overwhelming majority in those states wanted to stay allied with Washington. Would Washington want to help those unhappy former Americans rejoin the fold? Same thing.”