by Mark Parragh
“That’s enough!” he shouted. “Next one goes down the middle.”
The one struggling with his slung SMG immediately stopped and put his hands out to his sides. The other one, with the drawn pistol, started to move toward Halla. Crane stood and pointed the Sako at him.
“Stop!” he shouted.
The man considered his chances for a moment. Then he swore in Icelandic—at least Crane assumed that from the tone—and let the gun dangle in his hand. Halla took it from him and backed several steps away. She covered the pair with the pistol while Crane climbed out of the sheep pen and approached.
“Gunnar?” Halla said.
“In back,” Crane said, cocking his head toward the 4Runner. “He’s okay, but he looks pretty pissed off.”
“I bet he does,” she said with a laugh.
Once they’d disarmed and searched both men, they trussed them up in the back of the Suburban with their own zip ties. Crane pulled the Suburban off onto the shoulder while Halla freed Gunnar.
They had a quick conversation in Icelandic, then Gunnar turned to Crane and switched to thickly accented English.
“What in God’s name is happening?” he asked. “Thank you. I am Gunnar.”
“They were looking for me, I’m afraid,” said Crane.
“This I know!” Gunnar said pacing around, waving his hands in agitation and rubbing his forearms to get the circulation moving again. “They asked all about a foreign man. Had I seen him? Was anything gone from my farm? Then they want to search my truck! I don’t care for this. Strangers with guns telling me to get out, telling me what to do. I don’t put up with this.”
He gave Crane a sheepish glance. “But you see how that ended up. Thank you for saving me.”
“I’m glad to help,” said Crane. “I’m just sorry I got them so stirred up. They’re criminals, and I have proof of their crimes. That’s why they’re so desperate to find me.”
Gunnar glanced at Halla, perhaps wondering if she believed this.
“Gunnar, do you have your mobile?” she asked.
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Call Matti. Tell him I’m going to the airfield, and he should meet us there. I need him to fly this man to Akureyri.”
They made sure Gunnar was recovered, then said their goodbyes. When they were back in the Land Rover, heading toward Blönduós, Crane asked Halla, “Do you actually believe me now?”
She glanced over at him. “These men chasing you are bad men for certain,” said Halla. “I don’t know what you are, John Crane. But you said one thing that is true. The sooner you are gone, the safer everyone will be.”
Chapter 23
Einar swore under his breath. His team’s secure handsets weren’t working here. Akureyri might be the second largest city in Iceland, but that wasn’t saying much. It was a provincial town of fewer than 20,000 people clustered at the end of the country’s longest fjord, where open water gave way to marshy river delta. Datafall had never operated here.
He’d been at the outer fringes of the company’s private encrypted radio network before. Here, Einar had nothing. No radio network. No waiting Suburbans full of security men. No support at all. He was undermanned and unequipped. The stranger had managed to strip away most of his advantages and level the playing field.
Einar strode around the helicopter and surveyed the airport. There was a single runway, built on landfill extending out into the fjord. There were no gates or jetways. The planes pulled up and passengers walked to and from the terminal. Air Iceland provided ground handling and there was a maintenance company, a small flight school, a coffee and sandwich shop, and four car rental companies inside the terminal. An arc of old airplanes sat at the far edge of the field surrounding a large hangar called the Icelandic Aviation Museum. That was more or less what there was. It didn’t give Einar much to work with.
He had two of his security men, and he had the helicopter’s two-man flight crew, though they weren’t trained soldiers. The two security men, Nils and Rikard, were the ones who’d come to find him in Harpa. Einar thought back to the music, the scent of the woman at his side. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. Einar had been enjoying the fruits of his position that night, a position he’d put much time and energy into building. Now, that all hung by a thread. Even if he stopped the intruder here and recovered the data, his reputation with the board had taken a major hit. It would take him a long time to rebuild what this man had cost him. He would start repairing his reputation by killing the thief. Slowly, so he could find out all there was to know about who he was and why he had come.
Einar gathered his men near the helicopter and laid out his battle strategy. Without coverage for their radios, they’d have to communicate over the public network using personal mobiles. “Be careful what you say,” he told them. “Open channel protocols.”
He sent the helicopter’s aircrew into the town itself, about three kilometers away, and told them to simply watch the streets. They weren’t prepared for this. They’d just get in the way or, more likely given the target’s abilities, get themselves killed and cause him even more trouble with the Board of Directors. He’d considered whether to issue them pistols from the helicopter’s weapons locker, but ultimately decided that wouldn’t help. More eyes on the battlefield was the best he could hope for from them. If he was lucky, one of them would spot the target coming into town and provide some warning.
Einar and his two men would patrol the airport itself. Reaching Akureyri gained the man nothing. If he wanted to get out of the country, he’d have to come to the airport. This was where they’d take him.
The briefing trailed off as Einar realized there wasn’t much more he could say. Einar was a strategist, and strategy was about the most effective use of your resources. He simply didn’t have very many resources anymore. From here, the battle would come down to his personal skills and instincts and those of his men. He could tell they sensed his mood. This had shaken their confidence in him, too. He’d been an almost mythic figure to them, but now the stranger had bloodied his nose and shown that it could be done.
His only possible response was to fall back on his most basic leadership skills. Project confidence, assume orders will be obeyed without question. Remain calm and assured. Keep the nagging uncertainty and fear of what the worst case could mean well out of sight.
“That’s it, then,” he told them. “Everyone to your patrol areas. Text me every fifteen minutes.”
They hurried off, and Einar watched them leave. They were playing defense now, protecting their goal here at the airport. To get out of Iceland, the stranger would have to get past him. And Einar was prepared to do whatever it took to make sure that didn’t happen.
Chapter 24
The ferry took Georges to a tiny village on Iceland’s northern coast called Dalvik, and from there he caught a bus to Akureyri. Georges suspected they wouldn’t have time for all that on the way back out. So he made his way to the small harbor and walked along the waterfront, looking for boats. He checked all the piers, talked with anybody with a boat that looked remotely seaworthy, and let Josh’s money speak clearly.
Eventually he found a Captain with a fishing boat. His crew had already brought in the day’s haul and gone home, but the Captain could operate the boat alone, and for a price he was willing to take them to Grimsey. It was a pretty significant price, and Georges was pretty sure that, once again, he was being taken advantage of. But that was the position he was in, and Josh could afford it.
With the boat settled, he walked around the small town, getting a sense of the place. He tried to work out where Crane might go and how he would get there.
The huge cruise ship pier at the far end of the harbor was empty, and there was no activity around it to suggest another ship would be docking soon. It had to be the airport. Georges circled around the small central shopping district, then walked out toward the airport. There was no mistaking it. The runway was built well out into the water on a long spit of l
andfill. A road led out of town along the water’s edge. Eventually it split, one fork running across the fjord on a causeway, the other continuing on to the airport itself.
As he walked down the approach road toward the parking lots and the small terminal, Georges didn’t see much activity. A few people moved around outside. A pair of cab drivers leaned against a fender and gossiped. A car drove past him and headed into the parking lot. It was quiet. He saw some chain link fencing, but no more serious security.
Inside, the terminal was quiet as well. There were ticketing desks, car rental counters, a place to get coffee and sandwiches. But there were very few people. In some ways that was good, Georges thought. It would be easier to spot Crane if he showed up. On the other hand, it was easier to spot him as well. He hadn’t seen another black person since he’d landed. It wasn’t as if people were pointing and staring, but he’d be remembered if the police started asking questions.
Then Georges suddenly wheeled and walked into the coffee shop. He’d seen a man in uniform at the far end of the concourse—the black tactical uniform the Datafall men had worn at their supercomputing facility. It was as he’d feared. They were here.
Georges hovered over a rack of snack food and pretended to read labels. The guard glanced into the shop and suddenly stopped. Georges started to panic, then realized he’d heard a faint smartphone alert tone. The man took out his phone and checked the screen, then put it away and walked on.
When he had passed, Georges bought a pack of chocolates and headed down the concourse in the opposite direction. He found a door and walked outside. He walked confidently, as if he belonged there, and eventually found his way onto the tarmac. Small planes and a helicopter were parked in a row near a strip of grass and a fence. A truck passed by on the road to his right. Somewhere a horn sounded. Now that he was here, Georges wasn’t sure what to do.
Then the helicopter’s side door opened, and Georges felt another rush of adrenaline hit. A tall man with a bright blond crew cut stepped down onto the tarmac and hurried toward the main terminal. There was no mistaking the Datafall uniform. So the helicopter was theirs, Georges thought. That wasn’t good. It made them more capable; it made them more dangerous.
The man stopped partway across the tarmac to check his phone, then dictated a message and tapped the screen. He’d seen their people twice now, Georges realized, and each time they’d been sending text messages. Was that how they were communicating? If so, he could do something about that. But first things first.
Georges strolled down the row of aircraft. As far as he could tell, there was no one else aboard the Datafall helicopter. He moved around behind it and found what looked like an electrical access panel. He took a screwdriver from his pack and got to work. The panel came off to reveal a bank of fuses, and Georges began pulling them. He wished he knew more about helicopters. It was entirely possible he was just shutting down the running lights. But hopefully he was disabling the helicopter, locking it down so Datafall’s people couldn’t use it to pursue them.
His heart was pounding, and he was sweating profusely despite the cool temperature. He was terrified. He was totally exposed out here. All it would take was one person looking in the right direction to notice someone tampering with an aircraft. Memories started flooding back, of Cameroon, of nights huddled in his bed wondering if there would be a knock at the door, or simply a Molotov through the window. Memories of his mother, laying bandaged in her hospital bed. He fought them down and kept working. There was nothing he could do about what happened in Cameroon, nothing he could have done then. He was powerless. But here, now, he had the power to do something. Georges clung to that. He pulled another fuse and stuck it in his pocket with the others. He was still terrified, but he also felt stronger.
When all the fuses were removed, he screwed the panel back in place and walked away, forcing himself not to run. Hopefully the helicopter was now grounded and he’d denied them mobility. Now, on to their communications.
He walked back into the concourse and found the passenger waiting area. There were rows of metal-framed seats padded in vinyl. A few bored passengers were scattered around, waiting for domestic flights. It was the best cover he was likely to get.
Georges took a seat and took his laptop out of his pack. He plugged in a radio module he’d tweaked to operate on frequencies that weren’t entirely legal for unlicensed civilian use, and began sniffing for local cell coverage. He quickly picked up a cell belonging to Siminn, the local carrier, and began the methodical process of working out its protocols and gaining access.
It took about twenty minutes, but the time seemed to fly. He was on familiar ground now. He knew what he was doing. A light popped up on his interface, and he was into the cell’s SMS buffer. He started downloading recent messages and set up a script to run them through Google Translate to turn them into passable English.
Twice, the same Datafall guard he’d seen outside the coffee shop wandered through the area without paying attention to Georges at all. He felt like he was accomplishing useful things, but he didn’t know how long he could keep doing this before someone noticed he was just hanging around the airport for no apparent reason. He hoped Crane would turn up soon.
Chapter 25
At a little before three in the afternoon, a Cessna Skyhawk made its approach and touched down on Akureyri’s single runway. It didn’t brake immediately, but continued moving at speed down the runway until it had passed the taxiway turnoff leading to the terminal and hangar areas. Then it gradually slowed, going all the way to the far end of the runway before turning and taxiing back.
It had been a quiet flight for John Crane. The pilot spoke very little English, but Halla had explained everything to him at Blönduós in considerable detail.
“Ready,” said the pilot. “Ready.” And he frantically waved one hand at Crane. Crane nodded, hefted his pack over one shoulder and moved up against the passenger side cockpit door.
“Thank you,” he said.
The pilot waved his hand at him again and grinned. “Yah, yah,” he said. “Halla.”
Crane grinned back. He was getting the impression that Halla had a way of suddenly turning up in her friends’ lives with strange requests. Lend me your truck. Fly this stranger to Akureyri. And he gathered they’d long since learned there was no sense arguing with her. They just dropped what they were doing and did it.
“Halla,” Crane answered. Then the pilot reached the end of the runway and turned the plane around. At the right moment, when the plane was hardly moving and was best positioned to hide him from the terminal, Crane opened the door and leapt out onto the tarmac.
He landed on his feet and sprinted as his momentum carried him the last few yards to the edge of the runway. He half ran, half slid down the steep, grassy bank to the edge of the water. Behind him he heard the drone of the Skyhawk’s engine as it taxied back toward the terminal. He had made it to Akureyri.
The runway had been extended out into the water on landfill. Crane stood on a narrow margin of algae-covered rocks, hidden by the steep bank. He might be visible from the tower if someone was looking carefully for a man along the edge of the runway apron, but he couldn’t be seen from the ground. He carefully picked his way along the rocks at the water’s edge until he reached land and then made his way across a marshy flat to a sidewalk beside what looked like the employee parking lot. The main terminal buildings were ahead of him.
Anyone here would have seen the plane landing, of course. He had to assume they were looking for him. Crane kept moving. Somewhere around here was an airplane that could make Scandinavia or Greenland. Crane just had to find it, and either charter it or steal it. Before the Datafall men he was sure were here somewhere found him.
* * *
Einar realized something was odd when the Cessna overshot the taxiway and continued its landing run all the way to the far end of the runway. He was on the roof of the main terminal building with a pair of binoculars. From here he had a reasonab
le view of the ramp area and the runway, as well as a partial view of the general aviation hangars and support area to his right. If he crossed the roof he could sweep the approach road and the parking lots. His plan was to observe from here until the intruder appeared, then direct his men to him by SMS.
He’d seen one other small plane land earlier in the day. It had immediately decelerated and had plenty of time to slow to taxi speed before reaching the turnoff. Why hadn’t this one done the same?
He watched it through his binoculars as it slowly made its way back up the runway and turned off to the general aviation ramp. When it stopped, the pilot got out and was clearly not his man. But Einar’s instincts were telling him that something was wrong.
He swept the runway with his binoculars again. At the end, the landfill was built up perhaps fifteen or twenty feet above the waterline. The slope was angled, but not so steep it couldn’t be climbed. Einar began to form a guess as to what had happened. If someone was on that plane who didn’t want to be there when it reached the general aviation ramp, and didn’t want to be seen from the terminal, they might have used that turn at the end of the runway to bail out.
From there, he’d only have one way to go—back along the runway toward land. Einar slowly crept the binoculars back along the runway. At about the three quarters point he would reach land and could turn, cross those low flats…
There! A man on the sidewalk. A backpack slung over one shoulder. He was walking quickly toward the terminal from the far end of the sidewalk to the employee parking lot. But it was a large lot, and today was a quiet day. There were no parked cars that far out.
Einar couldn’t make out the man’s face, but he knew. Every instinct told him this was the man he’d been hunting for days all across the country.