Interquels

by Macalister Stevens

‘What?’

  Lindberg moved closer. ‘Go on. In my chest.’

  Mitchell stretched out his right arm, pushing the Colt into Lindberg’s chest.

  ‘Now, answer me one question,’ said Lindberg.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Rama-langa-ding-dong.’

  Mitchell frowned. ‘Wha—’

  Lindberg blurred into motion: Left hand gripped Mitchell’s right wrist. Right hand grabbed the gun barrel. A pivot. A twist. Lindberg had the Colt. All in a heartbeat.

  Lindberg took four steps back with the Colt in a two-handed grip aimed at Mitchell’s chest. ‘Hands on head. Down on your knees. Now.’

  ‘I fucking knew—’

  ‘You know shit. On your fucking knees. Or I put bullets in them.’

  Mitchell glared … then complied.

  ‘Trouble at the gate.’ It was Örn Frímannsson; he was with the team that had secured the entrance to the Reykjavik dock. ‘TV and press just arrived. They know about Zoran Kasun. They’re asking us to confirm or deny Cetus Bellator is involved in a plot to destroy the dock.’

  ‘Attention please!’

  The entire Ops Room turned to Henry Beckett.

  ‘You need to hear this.’ Beckett clicked fingers at a technician and said, ‘Special Agent Erik Lindberg, undercover with Lincoln In Hell. Agent Lindberg, you’re on speaker.’

  ‘Headline is we were wrong, Lincoln isn’t planning a single attack. There are multiple targets in Chicago, each allocated to an individual cell. Target locations unknown. These attacks are imminent. Cells are in communication blackout awaiting a GO signal via news channels. They’re waiting for a specific news story. Key words Viking Funeral. Precise meaning unknown.’

  ‘This is Special Agent in Charge William Colvin. Any information regarding timescale?’

  ‘Nothing precise. My cell is based in Elgin. The drive to Chicago would take an hour. It’s not a suicide mission, so time to get clear must be built in. Could be detonations will commence as early as ninety minutes from the GO signal.’

  ‘Do you know how many active cells are involved?’

  ‘Negative. But they’re down one. My knee’s on the chest of the leader of the cell I was assigned to.’

  ‘Is he likely to provide more information?’

  ‘We’d need to go Jack Bauer. That’ll take time.’

  Colvin glanced at Beckett.

  Beckett said, ‘Elgin police will be on the scene soon to assist.’

  ‘Agent Lindberg, stand by.’ Colvin turned to the monitor and studied the section relaying a close-up of Zoran Kasun’s face. ‘Everyone else. Thoughts?’

  ‘Viking funerals. Ships on fire,’ said Beckett. ‘Iceland. Terrorists at a dock. Terrorists likely in possession of a Dirty Bomb. That is a Viking funeral. Kasun knows he’s the celebrity in all this. He knows we’ll be paying special attention to him. If Kasun is in Reykjavik, the bomb will be in Hvalfjörður. He wants us watching him when he detonates it, and that’s the signal.’

  ‘Wait,’ said an analyst; her name was Taylor. ‘Isn’t that unnecessarily elaborate?’ Taylor looked around the room. ‘Why not just send a text?’

  ‘Many groups avoid cell phones because they don’t have adequate resources to counter our tracking protocols,’ said a tech from behind an array of desk monitors.

  ‘I know that Chris.’ Taylor rolled her eyes. ‘But, why go Bond villain?’

  ‘Distraction,’ said Beckett. ‘Look at us, we’re pouring resources into what’s happening in Iceland.’

  ‘Um ...’ The Europol liaison raised his hand.

  ‘Please, go ahead,’ said Colvin.

  ‘We know Kasun and Edilov have been in contact with extremists in various locations around the world. What if this coordinated action goes beyond the United States, and is carried out by disparate groups without a common communications system?’

  ‘And bad news travels fast,’ said Beckett. ‘If there’s the possibility Kasun’s about to detonate an RDD, we can’t take chances. Take him out.’

  Another analyst—named Reed—asked, ‘Why did Kasun take his time driving around Reykjavik?’

  ‘To allow the second van to get into position,’ Beckett suggested.

  ‘But considering the eco-terrorists executed an Icelandic officer at the factory, they couldn’t be in any doubt that the police were on to them,’ said Reed. ‘Why take their sweet time getting where they eventually pitched up?’

  Beckett shrugged. ‘Maybe they believed they had more time than they actually did.’ From Beckett’s tone, even he thought that was unlikely.

  ‘Or …’ Reed sucked in a breath. ‘Could they have been making sure the Icelandic police had enough time to find their murdered colleague?’

  ‘Deadly force,’ said Taylor. ‘They’re provoking the locals. They want the Icelanders predisposed to preventing the possible detonation of a Dirty Bomb by taking out Kasun.’

  Reed nodded. ‘The Viking funeral might not be an RDD blast in Iceland. It could be Kasun being shot dead. By Iceland’s special operations unit. The Viking Squad.’

  ‘Kasun gets a Viking funeral,’ Beckett half-mumbled.

  ‘Exactly.’ Reed did that thumb-pointing thing beloved of politicians making their case.

  Beckett was now staring down at his hands; he seemed to be weighing up the merits of the conflicting propositions. ‘But …’ Beckett looked up. ‘But a cop shooting a suspect isn’t a global news story. There are hundreds of police shootings every year.’

  ‘In the USA, yes,’ said the Europol liaison. ‘Not in Iceland. Icelandic police have never shot and killed anyone.’

  ‘Never?’ Beckett was incredulous.

  ‘Never,’ repeated the liaison.

  Will Colvin turned to the university professor.

  ‘That is correct,’ she said.

  ‘So Iceland’s first police kill would be big news,’ said Reed. ‘And if their first kill is a terrorist believed to be close to detonating a Dirty Bomb … headlines around the world. Guaranteed.’

  Beckett said, ‘So ordering the sniper to fire will either prevent or initiate a large-scale terrorist attack. Shit, it’s a heads-or-tails choice.’

  In Colvin’s ear: ‘Negative. It’s both.’

  There was the briefest of delays as Diðrik’s words reached Colvin. But in that time, Diðrik decided to take charge: ‘Charlie Squad. All targets, green light.’

  Jökull squeezed the trigger. Re-aimed. Squeezed.

  ‘Kasun and his driver are down,’ said Jökull‘s spotter.

  The sniper team at Hvalfjörður reported in: ‘Driver and passenger down.’

  ‘Brynja, Úlfur. Get those vans in the water. Now.’

  An hour later

  Henry Beckett handed a single sheet of paper to Will Colvin.

  ‘Just tell me,’ Colvin said.

  ‘Anton Edilov is being returned to Iceland.’

  It was an innocent enough sentence. But the message it conveyed wasn’t: pursuant to a speedily thrashed out agreement, operatives of an unnamed US agency, having had unlimited—and unrestrained—access to Edilov, and that interaction having secured Edilov’s full and satisfactory cooperation, had handed Edilov back to the Icelandic Police.

  Colvin understood the greater good thinking at play, but understanding wasn’t quite approval.

  Diðrik checked his watch: the National Commissioner of the Icelandic Police had been gazing out of his office window for twenty-six minutes.

  Another minute passed.

  A knock at the office door, and one of the Commissioner’s aides entered. ‘They have the information. Details have been sent to the appropriate agencies in France, Germany, Japan, Russia, Taiwan and China.’

  The aide didn’t mention the FBI; it went without saying that the team of consultants the Americans had sent would have provided the FBI with everything they had gleaned from Anton Edilov. Bureau agents would be carrying out raids in a number of locations in and around Chicago. Counterpart ag
encies around the globe would also be mobilising.

  Anton Edilov had managed to fly out of Reykjavik undetected, but he’d been identified boarding the ferry at Seyðisfjörður. Diðrik had immediately scrambled a team from Bravo Squad—the sea warfare specialists—with instructions to allow the ferry to sail, shadow it until it reached international waters, then board it. Diðrik had the American interrogation team redirected to Egilsstaðir, where a helicopter had been waiting to transport them to the ferry’s position.

  Edilov’s interview taking place in international waters didn’t alter legalities—rights were violated; laws were disregarded—but Diðrik knew that the unevenness of interpretations of jurisdiction involving what maritime lawyers called the high seas would give the politicians enough wiggle room to make plausibly robust justifications. And that was all most of the public needed to let themselves not care.

  The National Commissioner’s aide passed a file to Diðrik.

  Diðrik flipped it open. Read the contents. Then said, ‘Confirmation that there was an RDD in the Hvalfjörður van. Conventional explosive device in the other vehicle. Both devices have been disarmed and made safe.’

  ‘As have the press,’ said the aide.

  The National Commissioner turned. ‘Glad I could help.’ A small smile. ‘Horse-trading has its uses.’

  The press keeping the story under wraps until the Dirty Bomb conspiracy had been neutralised would be portrayed as heroic; a service to national and international security. Their responsible silence would make them the saviours of tens of thousands, perhaps millions of souls. They liked that idea much more than being prosecuted and sued out of existence for reckless complicity in global terrorism.

  Diðrik nodded, and glanced at the file. ‘Anton Edilov has been transferred to Víkingasveitin custody. As requested, the Americans made no enquiries regarding the shooting at the factory.’

  ‘Good,’ said the National Commissioner.

  Edilov would be facing a number of charges in various countries, but his first trial would take place in Iceland: for the murder of Steinn Ragnarsson. As that trial would rely on a revolver recovered from a member of Cetus Bellator, not on any of the information gathered by the Americans, Edilov’s prosecution would be free from any attempt by lawyers acting for Edilov to use the Americans’ interview techniques to taint the case against him.

  3 Days later

  ‘You were right.’ Will Colvin waved a file, then handed it to Erik Lindberg. ‘Zoran Kasun was committing suicide.’ Colvin pointed to the file. ‘Early onset Alzheimer’s. The bomb in the van was insurance. Or a way to take some cops with him. Or both.’

  Lindberg opened the file and scanned the pages; more out of politeness than actual interest. His comment about reckoning Kasun had a death wish had been throwaway. Something to say. Avoidance of thinking about how narrow the margins were between back-slapping and utter fucking disaster.

  Colvin held out his hand. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. If not for you, Kasun would have gotten his Viking funeral.’

  Lindberg shook Colvin’s hand.

  He loosened his grip, but Colvin didn’t let go.

  ‘Erik, I hope you’ll reconsider.’

  Lindberg was polite again. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  They both knew he wouldn’t. Colvin let go.

  ‘So what’ll you do when you leave the Bureau?’

  Lindberg shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll write a book.’

  PART 3: OPTIONS

  6 months ago

  Sometimes he thought about spitting in their coffee. He never did. Well, not in this universe. But according to one branch of science, extra froth was regularly added to their beverages. Many Worlds Theory some called it: different worlds in different universes where things work out … differently. He took solace that meant there were versions of the world where he’d had the balls to quit this bloody awful internship.

  Friends called him Rap. Short for Rapunzel: that’s what happens when you grow a ponytail in your early teens. He still wore his hair in a ponytail, though it wasn’t the look he wanted. A 1980’s lopsided Phil Oakey, he’d love that. But so far (in this world), he’d never been brave enough to go for it, so his proto-Oakey remained tied up at the nape of his neck.

  Rap was also his username for online third-person multi-player shooter-games. The games helped distract him from his writer’s block.

  But no-one at the office called him Rap.

  ‘Gameboy! Stop daydreaming and get me a fresh box of staples.’

  ‘Oi! Ubergeek. Stick this in the microwave will you.’

  ‘Hey Dreamweaver, when you’re back on Earth, I have some photocopying for you.’

  And then there had been: ‘Don’t you get lonely being a Cyber-Waif?’

  ‘I’ve made good friends gaming,’ he’d said defensively.

  ‘Ever met any of them, in the real world?’

  ‘Erm … no.’ That’s what he’d said. He could have added: But I do have open invitations to visit Essen, Kawasaki, Svendborg and Ventura. But he didn’t. Not in this world. But one day he’d visit all of those places, meet all of those friends. He just needed to sell a screenplay first.

  In the meantime …

  Coffee order in hand, he stood waiting for the elevator; the building was in the centre of London, but the company was owned by Americans, so they didn’t say lift. A middle-aged man in a crumpled linen suit joined him. They exchanged micro-nods as the door slid open, and as they stepped inside, Rap sneaked another glance … he thought so. Guy who’d written the Degen books. Most of the movies too. Should speak to him, Rap thought; ask him to read the screenplay. Well, the pages he’d written so far. But Rap said nothing. He merely maintained elevator etiquette by silently studying his scrap of paper.

  Across the street, Cordelia (from Accounts) was gliding into the bank. Rap liked Cordelia. A lot. But they’d never spoken. Action: no problem. Dialogue: needed some work.

  However, out of the office should be easier. Surely.

  So, gripping the cardboard tray of coffees, he strode towards the bank determined to Carpe Diem the hell out of the opportunity.

  The bank was quiet. No queues. No-one behind the counters. Just a huddle of people at the far end. They were looking Rap’s way, but over his shoulder.

  Rap spun round. Take-away coffees crushed into a solid chest sending an eruption of hot milky liquid spewing up into an odd-looking face. Thick arms shot out and up, knocking Rap back. As he fell, Rap saw hands clawing at the strange, blurry face. He gasped as fingers tore away a layer of skin. His arse hit the floor. Something clunk-thumped between his thighs, sliding into his groin. Rap looked down. A handgun. A Russian Makarov. He’d used one in the game Rogue Sleeper. Rap looked up. The face was now normal … except for the long shreds of skin hanging from the neck … no, not skin … cloth? It was what was left of a stocking. Holy crap, a robbery.

  Rap caught movement from the huddle. A large figure pushed to the front; it had a Makarov in one hand, and Cordelia’s elbow gripped in the other.

  Rap’s attention snapped back to the coffee-drenched bankrobber, now bending towards the Makarov nestled at Rap’s crotch.

  Rap reached.

  Thumbed the safety.

  Cupped left hand under right.

  Squeezed.

  Blam!

  A howl. Blood spurted from a leg. Screams from the huddle. The bankrobber crumpled.

  Rap rolled and aimed at the other robber. The huddle dropped to the floor. Rap scrambled for some game dialogue. ‘Freeze cheese-dick.’

  He winced. In Covert it had been cool. From Rap’s lips it sounded like food preparation instructions.

  The robber raised his Makarov.

  Rap squeezed.

  Ping!

  The lift door slid open. Rap looked up from his scrap of paper, and he followed the linen-suited author into the lobby. Outside, the author walked to a nearby taxi rank, and Rap looked across the street towards the bank, and there wa
s Cordelia.

  She waved. She smiled.

  Rap waved back.

  Coffee could wait.

  Rap crossed the road, hoping this was the universe where he came up with some smart dialogue. But if he didn’t, that would be okay; he thought, sometimes it’s the action that counts.

  PART 4: LONG GAME

  6 months ago

  Darcy sighed. Oh Author-Boy, she thought, that linen suit may be the type of comfortable clothing Hemingway would have chosen, but when you sleep in it, it looks like you’re wearing Hemingway’s scrotum.

  He made his way to the taxi rank, and Darcy followed, tipping her head down and to the side in case he turned round. But he didn’t. With a hand on the roof of the first cab, he leaned down to the open window to tell the driver where he wanted to go; his voice was loud enough for Darcy to hear. Damn, she thought. She’d been looking forward to telling the driver of the next taxi to follow that car.

  Darcy kept her eye on the taxi up ahead while idly listening to the news on the radio.

  In the United States, convicted terrorist Anton Edilov, now terminally ill with cancer, has been denied compassionate release—

  ‘Quite right too,’ said the driver. He changed the channel; 1970s disco filled the cab. ‘That’s more like it.’ He began whistling. Badly.

  Mercifully, the train station was only one extended remix away.

  Not long after the train left the station, the man in the linen suit was asleep. From the rear of the carriage, Darcy had watched his head sink to his chest, then jerk up, then sink again, and jerk again. After a few sink/jerks he'd scrunched himself into a position where his elbow stood a good chance of not slipping off the thin ledge along the window, while his palm cupped around his cheek to prevent his head rattling off the glass. It didn't look like a particularly comfortable arrangement.

  Sweet dreams Author-Boy, Darcy thought. She wondered if he'd notice his world had changed when he woke.