Rygg and Lena moved into the church. Rygg looked around, exhaling in relief. It appeared to be completely empty. Lena walked up to the lectern, touched it, and made the sign of a cross. She started to turn back to where Rygg stood, halfway along the aisle, but suddenly stopped and moved toward the curtain. It was parted a scant inch. With the side of her hand, she gingerly moved the curtain aside. Then she sank to her knees. Rygg saw her trying to scream, gripping the curtain in her fist, and using it to hold herself upright. A horrible, gasping hiss came from her mouth, as though her voice-box had been cut out. As Rygg ran up the aisle, the first croaking, retching noise emerged from her lips.
He yanked the curtains apart with one hand, the other raised to deal with whatever lay behind it. And there, lying on the altar, one pale arm hanging down, was Marin’s body. His face was gone: it had been completely smashed in. Beside the altar lay the solid brass curtain rod that had done the deed. Marin’s gray shirt was a mess of blood, and there was blood on his shoes, so Rygg knew he’d been standing when the first blows had hit.
Rygg was slumped beside Lena in front of the altar. He couldn’t remember sitting. Lena was now weeping, her face slathered with tears and spit, and strings of drool ran down onto the stone floor. She pawed the air, lifting a shivering hand to Marin’s shoes, touching his right heel as though it was hot, then pulling her hand back to her mouth and screaming hoarsely.
Suddenly there was shouting and a confused trample of heavy footsteps. Rygg looked up. Three figures burst in at the door and a powerful beam shone into their faces. But Sokolov and the goons slowed when they saw Rygg and Lena sitting before the altar. They strode up, guns aimed at their heads.
Lena started screaming at them. “Shoot me!” she shrieked. “Shoot me!” She grabbed at the gun of one of the goons, pulling the muzzle onto her forehead, but he yanked it away.
Sokolov walked up to the altar and began to laugh. Lena hushed, and she and Rygg just watched aghast as he stood leaning on the marble, looking into Marin’s shattered face and laughing. At last he turned to them, his guffaws diminishing to a chuckle. “So Sasha had some issues with his master, it seems,” he said. “Well done, Sasha, I must say. Well done.”
And suddenly Rygg saw it all. “So it was Sasha?” he said. “Helvette! You motherfuckers. That’s why—” He was so angry, with himself, with Sokolov, with Marin for letting himself be duped, that the words stuck in his throat. He recalled his words to Marin when he’d first met Sasha, about never thinking your hacker was the best or fully trusting them. Marin had trusted him so much that he … he’d just assumed that everything was on the up and up with him.
“Yes. We have been ahead of you all the way, Rygg. That’s why you couldn’t shake us. We were a part of you from the beginning.”
Rygg shook his head. “So where’s Sasha?” he asked.
“Well, I’m sure he has no interest in staying around here,” Sokolov chuckled again. “But we too have fallback scenarios. Anyway, you two are free to go.”
“Go?” Rygg stared at him stupidly. “Go where?”
“Anywhere you want.” Sokolov waved a hand at the entrance, which was a rectangle of white light. “Anywhere in the whole wide world you want, Torgrim Rygg. We’ll be staying here to deal with this mess.” And he barked a Russian command at the blond goons.
So Rygg took Lena’s hand and helped her up. Half-carrying her, one arm around her waist, the other holding her elbow, he walked with her out the door and into the bright morning. It seemed far too calm and pretty for the scene of horror they’d just witnessed. The hills tumbled down to the sea, which was a wash of pale blue-gray in the distance. Below them, the little town of Platres was a smattering of orange tiles and colorful flowerbeds, with half a dozen streets winding through it. “Come,” he told her. “Come, it’s not that far. We can make it.” And they set off down the track in the new morning.
In the town, they found a café that was open and sat beneath a grape arbor. Lena’s face was dead white and her mouth was just a slot. Her eyes were dull, unable to focus. Rygg ordered two coffees and a glass of whiskey. He drank his whiskey in a gulp and ordered a second, but Lena just sat staring out at the tumbling hills. “Your coffee,” he said to her at one point. She slowly turned to him, then looked down at the cup. She touched it with a finger, as though unsure what it was, then let her hand fall into her lap. She looked back out at the hills.
Rygg went in to use the toilet. As he was walking back out to the veranda, he spotted a dusty computer in a corner. Pointing to it, he said, “Internet?” to the mustached waiter. The waiter shrugged and went into the kitchen. Rygg reached around the back of the computer and turned it on. After it booted up, he tried connecting. It took a while, but it finally connected at 45 kilobytes per second. After a couple minutes, he managed to bring up the BBC.
There were two articles about the Alpensturm, and several images of the boat in the Larnaca harbor and the disembarking commandos. He read the articles, starting with the oldest, which quoted the Russian government’s brief. According to the government, seven hijackers, all of them Siberian criminals, had been arrested on board the ship. The criminals had been flown, under heavy guard, to Moscow, where they would be questioned and tried. The crewmembers, who were tired and dehydrated, but not in any danger, were recovering at an undisclosed location. The second article consisted of ill-informed and vacuous musings on what the ship might have contained and what secrets the Russians were concealing.
He went back to the home page and was about to log off when he saw that a third article had popped up in the last minute. It was labeled “BREAKING: Russian Journalist Claims Iran Connection.” Rygg skimmed the article, then scrolled back to the top and read through it more slowly: “Noted Russian undercover journalist Marko Marin earlier this morning released a lengthy article presenting evidence that the Alpensturm contained nuclear-capable S-400 missiles bound for Iran,” the article began. It went on to detail the allegations. Everything was there: Yuri’s images, Sokolov’s attempt to cover up Ann Devonshire’s discovery, the pictures Rygg had taken in the Ministry of Defense, Youssef’s information about the Mossad agents, and finally, the pictures of the Iranian agents Rygg had taken the evening before in the Larnaca airport. Reading through it, Rygg was struck by how airtight it was, how carefully Marin had covered every angle. Sure, the images could have been faked, he could have made up half the stories, but what motivation did he have? The story read true.
Rygg sat back and nodded slowly. “Good for you, Marko,” he said aloud. “Good for you. You did it.”
He went out and took Lena’s arm and gently led her to the computer. He sat her down and scrolled up to the top of the article. As she read, the tears washed down her cheeks as if they’d never stop.
Chapter 25
Home
That very evening, they were on a flight for Athens, then Oslo. Rygg couldn’t even remember taking off from the Athens airport. One moment they were taxiing on the runway and the next the flight attendant was shaking him, saying that they were about to land in Oslo. He’d slept the whole way.
There were a couple hours of craziness at the airport, but Rygg showed the officials Marin’s articles, which by now were all over the web. And finally, after making half a dozen calls, their agent stood and shook both their hands. “You’re a hero!” he said. “Sorry about all the hassles. We’ll get Miss Lor—, Miss Lorin— your friend here a visa as quickly as we can, don’t worry. And then it looks as though you might need a hospital for that.” He nodded at Rygg’s hand. The bandage was filthy, and his hand was red and swollen.
They were taken in a black Volvo to a ward at a military camp a few kilometers from the airport. Rygg had been there once before, to visit an FSK companion who’d been wounded on a mission. Rygg spent a couple nights in a spacious room, and Lena, who wouldn’t even sleep in an adjacent room, was given a bed beside his. They slept for twelve hours the first night, woke for a few dazed hours while nurses fussed
over them, then slept again. When Rygg had finally gotten all the sleep out of his system, one of the nurses asked if there was anything he needed.
“Anything at all?” he said.
She nodded. “We pride ourselves on our care,” she told him. “Especially for heroes like you.”
“All right. I’ll tell you what I need,” he grinned. “Anna Karenina.” He didn’t feel like a hero at all.
“I’m sorry?”
“Anna Karenina. The novel, you know. Tolstoy?”
Her smile faltered slightly, but she nodded. “Selvsagt. I will see what I can do.”
And within an hour, he was propped up on the pillows, reading his fourth copy of Anna Karenina and drinking coffee, while Lena slept beside him.
They had a few sessions with officials from Etterretningstjenesten – the Norwegian Intelligence Service – and an American who said he was “just a friend of Norway.” They were very interested in the Russian Ministry of Defense and had him go over the layout a number of times. They were also curious to learn more about Faisal, but Rygg fudged over that info a bit. But most of the conversation focused on Sokolov. And there, Rygg told them as much as he could.
May 17
Three days after their arrival, another official car took them to his apartment in Drammen. Silently they sped across the Drammen Bridge, down the E134 and through the narrower roads of Austadveien, which seemed as foreign now as Hamburg and Moscow and Cairo. And finally they turned into the dingy jungle of high-rise buildings. The car halted beside his building. “Well,” he said. “This is it. My building.”
And it was only when he entered his sad little apartment, with a used coffee mug still on the table and a shirt crumpled on the rug and that musty smell he could never get rid of, did he realize that the adventure was over. He spread his hand toward the lumpy brown sofa and tried to summon a grin. “Have a seat, Lena,” he said. “I don’t have tea, but I can make you some coffee.”
She looked at him with the lingering despair in her eyes that he feared would never leave. “Of course, Torgrim,” she said. “Yes please.”
So he made coffee, rinsed out a couple mugs, and straightened up a bit. And then they sat side by side on the sofa, like an old married couple, not saying anything, taking sips of coffee from time to time, staring at the wall where his television had stood before it was stolen.
That night she came into his bed. He’d made up the bed in the guest room and had finally gotten to sleep, when he woke with warm limbs against his. At first he thought they’d just lie together – she was crying and pressed her face into his chest. So he stroked her hair and ran his fingernails across her back, saying her name over and over. But after a while she raised her face to his and kissed him. Her lips were soft and questing. They made love slowly in the darkness and she was weeping the entire time, even as she clutched him and pressed him deeper into her. Afterward, she fell asleep at once, but he lay looking up at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the distant sirens. This was what he’d dreamed of, but he hadn’t been prepared for the rush of emotion, the tenderness he felt for her. Even in the early days with his wife, he hadn’t felt anything like this. “I’ll make a new life for you, Lena,” he whispered. “We’ll make a new life somewhere.” But even as he said the words, he felt them evaporate and a nameless fear entered his chest.
May 18
In the morning, he kissed her sleeping cheek gently and went out to the kitchen. He made coffee, but the fridge was empty. He popped out to the small grocery store at the end of the block and picked up some eggs, milk, bread, butter, and marmalade. On his travels, he’d missed the flavorful Lerum marmalade, with its shavings of orange peel. “Where you been?” the old Vietnamese lady at the counter asked him. “We not see you for long time.”
“I was on a trip,” he told her. “Business trip. Hamburg. And other places.”
She peered at him. “You look different,” she said. “You lost bit of weight maybe? You been on diet?”
He shrugged and nodded. He paid for the groceries and walked back to the apartment. As he entered, he noticed, shoved halfway under the carpet behind the door, a white envelope. He must have missed it when they came in the previous evening. He picked it up and tore the end off. Inside were two pieces of paper. One was an itinerary, for Mr. Torgrim Rygg and Ms. Lena Lorincozová: Oslo Gardermoen – Paris Charles de Gaulle – Nairobi – Bujumbura. One way. He glanced at the date. Tomorrow evening. No. It was already tomorrow. This evening. And then, shaking so that he could hardly hold the paper, he read the second message, in black ballpoint: “I need your help.” He recognized that cramped scrawl.
For a long minute he stood there, his mind whirling. “No way,” he said. “Det er faen meg ikke mulig!” He had a sudden crazy notion to take the papers, shove them into the garbage, and make breakfast as though nothing had happened.
But just then Lena walked sleepily out of the bedroom. She rubbed at her hair, yawned, then looked at him. “What is it, Torgrim?”
He led her to one of the stools at the kitchen counter and placed the contents of the envelope before her. She read the itinerary, then the message. Slowly, with a trembling finger, she touched the black letters.
“Is it his writing?” Rygg asked, though he knew the answer already. She nodded, and a tear splashed onto the paper.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I also,” she whispered.
“So what do we do?”
She looked up at him, as if confused by the question. “What do we do? We go to Bujumbura, of course. At seven o’clock in this evening.”
Chapter 26
Burundi
May 20
Between bouts of sleeping and staring out the window and chewing his way through the tasteless airplane food and going over possible scenarios with Lena, Rygg managed to get almost the whole way through Anna Karenina on the three plane trips. He had just one chapter to go when the little four-prop plane they’d boarded in Nairobi scooted down over a ridge of mountains, across a lake, and onto the landing strip. The airport was a cluster of three white domes that echoed the hills behind. There was just one other plane on the strip, and their plane drove right up to the doors of the airport. They walked down the steps, into balmy, humid air, and a scent of kerosene and coffee and tropical flowers. Lena took his hand as they walked across the tarmac and through the doors. The immigration official stamped their passports and waved them through.
And there he was; a small haggard-eyed man in a plain blue shirt and khaki trousers, standing to one side of the lounge. Lena ran toward him and Marin smiled and opened his arms. For a long time, they embraced on the tiled floor, swaying slightly from side to side, while the other passengers – women in colorful headdresses and men in shiny suit jackets – passed around them, looking at them curiously. Lena pulled back, took Marin’s head in both her hands and kissed his lips, then slapped his cheek, quite hard. He laughed and gripped her wrists. Turning to Rygg, he said: “Torgrim, welcome to Bujumbura!” And Rygg just stood there grinning at him. It was impossible to feel any jealousy – Marin was so small and sincere.
In the taxi, Marin refused to say anything at all, except: “Wait … wait.” The taxi took them down along the lake, to a place called “Chez Eveline,” where a dozen thatched gazebos were scattered about a lawn. They took seats around a wooden table in one of the gazebos and Marin ordered beers. And not until the cold Amstels arrived did he look at them, with a smile that contained even more sadness than usual.
“So,” he said. “You want the story, of course. And you want to know why you are here in Burundi. In the center of Africa.”
Rygg took a sip of beer. It tasted great. “What we’re really curious about, Marko,” he said, “is how you managed the whole resurrection thing. We saw your fucking body. We saw you dead.”
“Yes. I am sorry you had to go through that. But it was truly the only way to get you out of Sokolov’s hands without rousing his suspicions. Your emo
tions had to be genuine, you see.” He traced a line through the beads of perspiration on the outside of his glass. “It was, of course, not my body.”
“So who on earth …” He had a sudden vision of Marin ransacking the Cypriot morgue.
“It was Sasha.”
Lena put her hands to her mouth.
“Fytti helvette!” said Rygg.
Marin nodded. “Yes. I had begun to suspect him, even before we got to Cairo. But I was not sure until we got to Cyprus. There I set a little trap for him – I told him a small lie, but a crucial one. When we were in the room together, after you had gone to the port and the airport, I told him that I had arranged for a private boat to take us to Athens after I published my article. I knew this was information he would have to pass immediately to his supervisor. So I left the room. I said I was going to the bathroom, but I looked through the hole of the key. And I saw him. I saw him immediately go to the computer and type in a quick message. While he was still typing, I opened the door, and he quickly shut down the window. But later, while he was sleeping, I found the message. It was to Sokolov.
“Anyway, I received your information. I published, as I am sure you discovered. And immediately afterward, Torgrim, I took your motorcycle and Sasha and I drove up to Platres, to the chapel of Santa Nikolaiou. There, of course, Sasha met with an unfortunate accident. You perhaps did not notice that as my alter ego Alex in Moscow I had dyed and cut my hair to resemble his. Sasha, like me, was thin and white-skinned. We have only one inch apart in height. But our faces are of course very different. I exchanged clothes with him. But I was forced to destroy his face.”
Chasing the Storm Page 27