The Cold Edge

by Trevor Scott

  Suddenly he stopped. He didn’t know why. Looking down to his left, he saw a sensor. Motion. Without moving, his eyes roamed higher on the trees until he saw the flood light. The sensor would flick that light on, so he wasn’t busted yet. Pretty low tech, Victor.

  Wait. He knew Jake would find that. It would make Jake move around to the right or left. Shit. Was he second guessing everything? Right, left or straight ahead? Think, Jake. What would he do?

  The sensor was too obvious, he thought. Move straight ahead. Taking a deep breath, Jake stepped lightly forward and stopped again.

  Wait a minute. Would Victor guess that Jake would guess that this was a ruse to get him to go right or left? Then when Jake moved forward the light would go on and set off an alarm inside. You little bastard.

  Jake felt the 9mm automatic under his left arm and wanted to simply pull it and run toward the estate. Screw the damn alarms. Just move forward.

  Stepping forward, Jake crossed the path of the motion sensor and stopped beyond its range, cringing, waiting for the light that didn’t come. But maybe the sensor still sent a silent alarm inside. Screw it, Jake. At this rate, he wouldn’t get inside until Christmas.

  He cautiously moved forward through the thick underbrush that made the estate almost invisible from the lake or the road. Petrova really liked his privacy.

  Finally, Jake came to the edge of the grass that led to the estate. Twenty yards of grass surrounded the huge three-story structure, built in the Georgian style, with tall columns rising two stories to a portico with metal-railed balconies on each window, with, Jake was sure, a splendid view of the lake on days not like this one.

  How the hell was he going to cross the grass without being viewed? He sat down into the tall grass among the bushes to contemplate this conundrum.

  As he watched in a daze, mostly from the lack of sleep over the past week, a man finally appeared around the right side of the main building. A little man, but Jake could see it wasn’t Victor Petrova. This guy was early thirties with spiked platinum hair, and looked like he pumped iron. He reminded Jake of a midget wrestler from the days before WWF or WWE. But this guy was different. He had an MP5 sub-machine gun strapped over his shoulder. Based on his trajectory, he would swing right in front of Jake. He had to move fast.

  He left one bag there, camouflaged among the ferns, and scooted around to his left, making his way around the opposite perimeter of the house. Moving slowly, with purpose, he could now hear talking toward a garage structure. When another man, a near clone of the first, only with dark, curly hair, appeared around the edge of the garage, Jake stopped in his tracks and slowly sunk to the ground among the bushes. This little man would swing around and probably tag-team the other guy about halfway around the house. Jake couldn’t take out one without the other seeing him do so.

  Then, from the garage, came a large man with a shaggy Black Russian Terrier leashed and trying to pull him forward. This dog could have eaten the other two guards for lunch. The handler, who yanked on the leash and almost took the dog’s neck off, also had an automatic pistol clipped to his belt. Now Jake could be in trouble. He needed to stay still.

  When the man unleashed the dog, it pranced around the yard marking its territory. At one point, it came within ten feet of Jake as it sprinted in front of him along the edge of the yard. Then it finally stopped and took a massive dump, rubbed its feet in the grass, and ran back to the man, cowering as it got a couple feet away. He clipped the dog to the leash again and wandered back to the garage.

  Jake needed to get rid of the dogs first. He hated to do it, but knew they were also trained for one thing—to rip into anything or anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there. Maybe they would make it easy for him.

  Just as the two little guards met near Jake’s last position, he got up and made his way behind the garage. Hidden from view from the house and the two guards, Jake peered through a back window into the five-car garage. There were only two cars inside. A vintage MG midget, classic, and a new black BMW 7-series. Along the back side of the far end were kennels for four dogs. The big guy was putting the dog back into the end unit, and then he plodded off through the open garage door toward the house. He left the door open. Finally, a break.

  Moving casually around the edge of the garage, Jake entered the door as if he worked there. The dogs immediately stood and took notice, but didn’t bark. Jake had come across this breed while stationed in Europe. The old Soviets had used the Black Russian Terriers as guard dogs at some of their nuclear sites. They were strong and extremely loyal, yet somewhat submissive unless provoked or unleashed on someone by a handler.

  Looking around the garage, Jake found a chair and pulled it up next to the cages. He put his back to the dogs, took off his pack, and sat down—ignoring them. Reaching into the backpack, he found some beef jerky he had purchased at the sporting goods store and started opening them. He took a bite out of the first piece, looked around behind him, and threw the jerky into the closest kennel. The dog immediately chomped onto the jerky. Jake did the same thing with the other three. Then he repeated the process one more time. By the time he was done, their little black cropped tails wiggled for him. Share a meal and make a friend. He hoped it would work. He hated to kill such beautiful dogs just for the hell of it.

  Then Jake stood and gave the dogs commands in Russian. As suspected, they had been trained in that language and they responded to him immediately. New friends and subservient. Nice.

  He put his backpack on and made his way toward the outside, but stopped and scooted toward the edge when he saw the large man coming back from the house. Looking around, Jake was trapped.

  The man got closer and Jake pulled his gun.

  In seconds the dog handler entered the garage. Jake stepped behind the man and said, “Stop right there.”

  Startled, the big man turned and started for his gun.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Jake said.

  The guy stopped, his hand a few inches from his gun.

  “You’re the American,” the man said through a thick Swedish accent.

  “The troll told you about me? I’m flattered. Get on your knees.”

  The man hesitated and then complied, his eyes shifting toward the dogs in wonder.

  “What’s the matter?” Jake asked him. “Your dogs don’t seem too concerned?”

  His thick brow ridges rose.

  “They hate you, Sven. You can treat some species of dogs like shit and they’ll still do anything for you. But the Russian Terrier will hate and resent you. Gotta be a little nicer to them.” Jake came up behind the man and struck him with his gun in the back of his head. He went down but not out. Taking the opportunity, Jake took the man’s gun. Then, as the man rolled to his side and tried to get up, Jake kicked the guy in the face, smashing the back of his head against the cement. Now he was out cold.

  Jake took off his backpack and pulled out some plastic zip strips, affixed them to the man’s hands behind his back, and then also strapped his ankles. Next, he found the duct tape and wrapped it around the man’s mouth, around his head. Someone would have to cut it off. Then Jake grabbed the man and pulled him to the other end of the garage. He checked the BMW driver’s door. It was unlocked. He pressed the trunk release and it popped open for him. With great difficulty, Jake lifted the man into the trunk and closed him inside. Satisfied, Jake found his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at the dogs, who seemed interested but not concerned. Telling them to ‘sit’ in Russian, all four did so immediately. Sweet. Now to get into that house.

  29

  All of the players had reassembled at the Lillehammer airport. One hour before they would move out, and one and a half until the strike. The Norwegian Police Security Service had the largest contingent, including their SWAT unit, followed by the Norwegian Intelligence Service. The local police were in a secondary, backup position, used mostly to cut off transportation. Sitting back in more of consultant roles were the Central Intelligence Agenc
y, Toni, and MI6, Jimmy McLean and Velda Crane. Leading them all, to most displeasure, was Interpol’s Anna Schult.

  Anna stood out on the flight line next to the NIS Bell 407, reviewing a map of the area. Kjersti was in the cockpit talking with the tower and weather, trying to find out when the fog would lift.

  Jimmy and Velda came over from a large SUV. “We feel a little left out,” Jimmy said to Anna.

  Velda nodded agreement.

  “I’m sorry,” Anna said. She knew that if it was revealed that there was no flu virus the case would be pulled from her immediately. “Do you have a location on your subject? What’s his name?”

  “Gary Dixon,” Velda said. “Yes. He’s out at Petrova’s estate.”

  Jimmy jumped in. “This could be a bloody blood bath with all these weapons. Shouldn’t we try something a little less. . .obtrusive?”

  Anna had seriously considered that herself. She remembered how everything had gone down two years ago, with her and Jake at the Austrian castle. Jake had lost a good friend that day. Much had gone right, but enough had also gone wrong.

  “We can’t let this virus get in the wrong hands,” Anna said lamely.

  Jimmy rubbed the stubble on his strong jaw, looked away, and then back at Anna. “This Jake Adams. I’ve heard of him. Does he know what he’s doing? I mean, why would he bring an active virus to the man who wanted to probably sell it to the highest bidder?”

  He had a damn good point, and Anna hoped she wouldn’t have to answer that question. At least until she could explain everything.

  “I trust Jake with my life,” Anna said, “because he’s saved it more than once in the past few years. In the past week. Don’t judge him until you know the. . .”

  “Truth,” Jimmy finished.

  Anna looked down at Velda and then back at Jimmy. They deserved to know the truth, but she couldn’t tell them right now. “Everything will become clear soon.”

  “Blind faith,” Velda said. “Sounds like a good way to get us killed.”

  “Listen,” Anna said. “This Victor Petrova is a bad man. You’ve read the briefing on him and his organization. We’re going to take him down with or without you. You can sit back here in town and drink beer for all I care.” That came out much more harsh than she had intended.

  Jimmy stepped back, his hands up. “Hey, take it easy Miss Interpol. I play devil’s advocate, then salute smartly. We all drink beer when this is over.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anna said. “I’ve got a lot to consider.”

  “No problem,” Jimmy said. “We’ll take the high road. Literally. As planned.”

  The two MI6 officers left her, but were replaced immediately by Toni Contardo and Colonel Reed.

  “What can I do for you?” Anna asked.

  “We’d like to change from entering on the road,” Toni said, to taking a boat.

  Anna shook her head. “Why?”

  “Looks like you could use some help there,” Toni said. “Hate to leave it only to the local cops.”

  “I don’t know if we have an extra boat,” Anna said.

  “We’ve got that covered.” Toni put her hand on the colonel’s shoulder.

  “He shouldn’t even be here,” Anna said, her gaze harshly fixed on Colonel Reed. “We still don’t know for sure if he’s working for the Agency or Petrova.” Or perhaps himself, she thought.

  “Colonel Reed has actually been to Petrova’s estate,” Toni reminded Anna. “And I assure you he is not working for that KGB dwarf.”

  Anna looked at the colonel, who seemed contrite. “Fine. You better get down to the lake, then.”

  Toni smiled and she and the colonel walked off to their car, Anna watching every sway of her hips. Kjersti was wrong. Toni still had it going on.

  This was crazy, Anna thought. Why had they put her in charge? Toni had decades more experience than her. She knew the answer, though. If anything went wrong, the Americans, the Brits, and the Norwegians could blame everything on Interpol. Hang her out to dry. But at least she knew something they didn’t know—there was no virus. That was one comforting fact.

  Kjersti climbed down from the chopper cockpit, throwing her headset onto the seat.

  “What’s the matter?” Anna asked her.

  “We’re grounded. Fog isn’t expected to lift until later this evening. It would be different if we were heading to Hamar. They’ve got three mile visibility there.”

  “That’s all right,” Anna said. “We’ll go by car.” She was actually relieved, not trusting her stomach to another flight.

  30

  Victor Petrova had just finished a large meal of fish and potatoes and vegetables, topped off with a great apple strudel and ice cream.

  Now, sitting in his communications room, he glanced at all of his monitors. But the fog was so thick he could only see a few feet out on the outdoors cameras. So he concentrated on the indoor cameras.

  His cell phone rang and he picked up.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Listening carefully, he waited until the caller had finished. He had trained his contact well. A quick briefing. To the point. Just the facts.

  Petrova grunted and then hung up. Then he yelled as loud as he could until one of his men came into the room. It was a little person like Petrova. A Ukrainian, though.

  “Make sure we’re ready,” Petrova said. “Looks like we’ll have some company soon. Make sure the cars and the boat are ready.”

  The Ukrainian nodded but waited for more.

  “That’s all,” Petrova said.

  The man started to leave.

  “Wait. Where’s that big Swedish bastard?”

  “I don’t know,” the Ukrainian said. “I’ll ask around.”

  “He was checking on the dogs,” Petrova said. “Look there first.”

  The Ukrainian hurried off, probably to avoid any more instructions.

  Damn it. He should have had cameras installed in the garage. Maybe not to watch the damn dogs, but to at least keep an eye on his BMW and MG.

  His cell phone rang again and Petrova reluctantly picked up.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, my little friend.”

  My God. What balls. “Jake Adams. Is that you?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “You’ve got something that’s mine,” Petrova said. “There’s a finder’s fee.”

  “Where’d you get all the Alexandrite?” Jake asked him.

  Sure. He should have expected Adams would open the damn box. He heard a familiar sound in the background. A dog whine. A smile crossed his face.

  “What you do with the big Swede?” Petrova asked.

  “He’s taking a nap.”

  Petrova laughed. “I’ll bet. Why don’t you come into the house and we’ll talk.”

  “Not until you tell all your little friends not to shoot,” Jake said. “One of them could actually hit me. Then you’ll never find your gems.”

  “Done. Give me five minutes and you can come in through the front door. Nobody will stop you.”

  The line went dead. Petrova hunched and then called all his men to tell them to let Jake Adams pass. That man had balls like pumpkins. He smiled with that thought.

  ●

  Jake had thought about it and realized he could have shot it out with Petrova’s men, but that would not accomplish his goal. He would only be killing men he had nothing against—men who were loyal to Petrova, true, but who might not even know the true nature of the man’s deeds. Hired guns.

  Instead, Jake needed to talk with the man. Maybe he knew this all along. He also knew that Victor Petrova couldn’t kill him outright without fear of losing his precious gems. That was his hold card. His queen waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting knight.

  Before making the call, he had made a quick call to his own voice mail, leaving a coded message for himself. It was his only insurance policy. Just in case Petrova’s men didn’t like following orders.

  He stuffed his backpack with his gear in a corner of th
e garage, his only weapon one 9mm handgun with an extra magazine, which hung below his left arm under his jacket. That done, Jake walked out of the garage, his hands out to his sides. Both of the little security guards that had roamed the grounds scurried toward him, their guns pointed in the air. Hopefully they had gotten word from Petrova to let him pass.

  The little guards escorted Jake to the front door of the large estate. Before entering the house, they found Jake’s gun and extra magazine and took it from him.

  Inside, Jake immediately noticed the place had been converted to all things Russian—right out of a St. Petersburg palace—with high ceilings, dark wood floors, and old paintings of Russian aristocracy encased in gilded frames.

  When Jake hesitated for a view, one of the men jammed the barrel of his automatic weapon into Jake’s back. As they walked slowly through the mansion, more little people poked their heads out of doors and wandered about their business—whatever that was.

  Finally, Jake entered a grand room, a library of sorts, with a panel of security screens breaking up the old dark wood style with high tech. Sitting in a leather chair, swiveling from side to side, was Victor Petrova.

  He had changed quite a bit since the last time Jake had seen him. Older. A little more weight on his tiny frame.

  “You look like shit,” Petrova said. “Probably need a drink.”

  Jake ignored that comment and stretched his arms out, his palms up. “Let me guess. You represent the Lollipop Guild?”

  “Ha, fucking ha. Still a comedian. But now a drunk comic. Not very original.”

  “Can we get on with this,” Jake said. “I really need to take a piss.”

  “Great. Right to the point.” Petrova shifted his eyes to his men and then back to Jake.

  Jake knew that Petrova had probably calculated every more Jake would make, from Oslo to Svalbard and right to Lillehammer. But Jake still had a few things in his favor. He had the gems.