Lund straightened up, staring at the grenade. “It’s a fragmentation grenade.” He looked at Wilde. “You knew.”
“Yes.” Wilde again offered the gun.
This time Lund took it, his gaze barely shifting from Wilde’s face.
“There’s two professional hiker’s packs at the door. They’re the big ones with the four foot frames but Nejeem looked like the only terrorist in the room. How did he bring both of them into the room? You said he was caught by surprise, so someone else must have been carrying one of them when the alarm first went up.”
“He had a partner,” Bergström concluded, looking down at the dead woman.
“She was the only one not gagged and Nejeem was keeping her near him.”
“She was screaming,” Lund said.
“Because hysterical screaming scrapes on your nerves, makes you jumpy and inclined to make quick, ill-considered decisions.” Wilde smiled grimly. “They were cornered but they weren’t stupid.”
“And the bomb wired to the door?” Bergström asked heavily.
Wilde held his hands out, as if the answer were obvious. “If you’d read your Interpol releases, you’d know that Nejeem doesn’t make bombs. He couldn’t jury-rig an egg timer. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed that the beam is still cutting across the doorway?”
Bergström and Lund both turned to see the thin red beam slicing through the air between the back-packs.
“You’ll find it’s a jammed laser-pointer propped inside the top flap of one of the packs. You’ll also find there isn’t a matchbox worth of C4 in either of them.”
Bergström swallowed, the fluttering nausea back in his stomach. “But you still shot Nejeem,” he ground out.
“He was going for another grenade, one in his jacket. He was going to take everyone out, including himself. And especially me.” Wilde shrugged. “Check his jacket if you don’t believe me.” He didn’t seem to be particularly interested if Bergström did or not.
Emotionless. Bergström cleared his throat, trying to deal as dispassionately with this as Wilde. But he was still shaking.
Wilde was already turning away. He was staring at the far corner of the room, where a knocked-about laptop sat open upon an old tin desk. At the foot of the desk, three paramedics were working the only victim into an evidence bag.
Wilde lunged across the room and grabbed the hand of the medic who was zipping the bag up. “Wait,” he snapped. He looked at Lund. “Whose apartment is this?”
Lund opened his mouth to speak, his shoulders already lifting in a shrug. Then he really looked at Wilde’s expression. He lifted the clipboard in his hand and flipped through a dozen pages, scanning. “Marta Egstrom. Finnish, originally, although there’s very little detail here.”
“There wouldn’t be,” Wilde said, looking down at the body at his knees. “This is her? Marta?”
Lund glanced at the medics, who looked blank. Then one said, “I helped one of the survivors out. He said that they shot the owner of the apartment as a demonstration of their seriousness.”
Wilde reached out his hand, hesitated, then rested it on her forehead. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Parisa. So sorry.”
Bergström moved forward. “Who is Parisa?”
“Long story.”
“I’m happy to listen,” Bergström said as sweetly as he could manage.
Wilde looked up at him and for the first time Bergström saw something other than indifference in the man’s face. There was a great weariness there, the kind that came from carrying burdens for far too long. “This is Parisa,” he said, his hand touching the dead woman’s forehead gently. “She was relocated. She worked for me once. She was from Iran originally, but we pulled her out of Afghanistan after she helped us with…something.”
Bergström held up his hand. “I’ll live happier without the details, I’m sure.”
Wilde sighed. “Nejeem didn’t pick this apartment by default. Parisa was targeted.”
“Who wanted her dead? Nejeem?”
“Nejeem was just a tool.”
“Then who?”
“No one you need worry about. Not anymore. He won’t be back.”
“He could have killed dozens of my fellow Swedes. I won’t get picky about the Seurat not having the decency to inform the right people there was a high risk refugee hiding in Stockholm but I do take exception to the other people the wretch could have taken with him. I want a name.”
Wilde considered for a moment. “A man called Zaram. Give me your card and I’ll have our files on him sent to you.”
Bergström fished out a card and handed it over.
“You have to understand, Bergström. We thought she was safe. Completely hidden. We thought, after eight years, Zaram would have forgotten about her.”
Bergström stared at him, not giving an inch.
“We were wrong,” Logan finished.
“Is that an apology?”
Wilde looked down at the body again and at the medics patiently waiting. “I’d rather apologize to her but….” He stood and the medics zipped up the bag. “I have to make a call.”
Chapter Two
The sting of the freezing rain against his face felt almost refreshing after the enclosed, body-filled apartment. Logan lifted his face to the sky for a moment, then headed for the shelter of a tarpaulin that had been strung between two vans, fishing out his cell phone. He hit the speed-dial for Elias.
“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Elias Longfellow’s voice boomed in his ear. Elias himself was as big as his voice, the only man in the Seurat taller than Logan and twice as wide.
“I was in Paris when your note reached me. That was six hours ago and now I’m standing in Sweden. You’re really going to bust my balls for being late?” Logan gripped the phone. “There’s a complication.”
“Do I need to come to you?” Elias asked sharply.
“Not any more. Zaram found Parisa.” Logan repressed the dull fury that touched him. “That’s what this sham was all about.”
Silence greeted his words. Then, “You’re on a cell phone, Logan.”
“You think Zaram’s going to care that we know? He wanted me to figure it out. That’s why he sent in an incompetent like Nejeem. He wanted to make sure I tripped over Parisa’s body.”
“You’re sure it’s her?”
“Shit, Elias, give me a break.” Logan didn’t bother protesting more than that. He knew Elias was playing for time while he tried to find a way to accept the unpalatable facts.
“Fuck,” Elias said at last.
And that’s the only eulogy she’ll get, Logan thought. The sadness swelled in his chest. It hurt. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“After eight years, Logan? Come on.”
Logan could feel his rage building. His head throbbed with it, sharp and pounding. Eight years and Zaram had not given up. Parisa had been a minor cog in an unimportant area of his operations but Zaram had not let the insult lie. Eight years and he had continued to seek her and plan his vengeance.
“You’re not going to get all resentful on me, are you?” Elias demanded.
“Elias….”
“For chrissake. Get a grip, will you?”
It was Logan’s turn to be silent.
“I need you chilled for a while longer. Something else has come up. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” Logan rubbed his temples hard. He heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder. Bergström and Lund had followed him out. Bergström still looked pissed.
Elias’ voice boomed, claiming his attention again. “I need you in San Francisco in less than twenty hours.”
Logan felt his jaw beginning to drop and caught it up. “Twenty hours? Are you kidding me? You know where I am, right?”
“I’ve arranged military transport from Ramstein airfield in Germany. There’s a C-5 Galaxy you can hitch a ride on. That will take you straight to Vandenburg. You have to get yourself to Germany. This is a drop-everything-an
d-run command, do you hear me?”
There were so many possible responses, Logan couldn’t begin to narrow down his choices.
Elias added, “Nothing like this has ever happened before, Logan. I’ll explain when you get here. Just get here, okay?”
Logan nodded. “Okay. Twenty hours.”
“Sooner, if you can.”
“I’ll be there.”
* * * * *
When Wilde finally closed his phone and looked at Bergström once more, the eyes were as clear and emotionless as when he’d shot Nejeem’s woman. The distress Bergström had seen was gone. “I need to get to Ramstein Airforce base in Germany, as soon as possible.”
It wasn’t a plea. It was barely even a question. A dozen protests occurred to Bergström. What about the clean-up here? What about the paperwork? What about the media, god save us? What about explaining to my director about this mess?
But an even smaller voice, one he wanted to blast out of existence, whispered silently. What mess? Beside one less-than-innocent victim, the only people dead here are the terrorists and they got there because they were going for grenades.
Lund cleared his throat. “There’s the German team out of Laage here, testing the JAS 39 Gripen.”
“Are they far away?” Wilde asked.
“I was just drinking with them tonight. Last night, I mean.” Lund glanced at his watch. “They’ll be back at SAAB now, in Linköping.”
Wilde’s eyes narrowed. “How far away is Linköping?”
* * * * *
San Francisco, California. Almost 20 hours later.
Logan had barely settled his weight onto the too-soft hotel bed when the knock came. It took real effort to get to his feet again.
Elias Longfellow nodded as he entered. “You made sure you weren’t noticed, coming in?”
“Noticed by whom? The only one watching is Zaram. The bastard probably has eyes on us right now. Laughing at us.”
“Maybe.”
“Probably. You know he did this just to get even.”
Elias looked surprised, then concerned. Gently, he said, “He’s not trying to get even. It’s nothing personal. He’s just finishing up outstanding business. You know Zaram better than I do but I know that much.”
Logan pinched the skin over the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, you could be right.” The heaviness in his bones had become a leaden weight.
“How long is it since you got any sleep?” Elias asked.
“I slept on the way from Stockholm. Don’t start handling me, Elias.”
“I’m not.”
“I know that delicate two-step of yours. But you’ve already agreed on this one, so don’t waste your time trying to get around me. I finish up in Paris, then I’m done in the field.”
Elias held up his hand. “Okay. Peace.” He held out a sheet of paper, forcing Logan to take it. “Message from home.”
Logan glanced at the garbled text. “I don’t have today’s key.”
Elias poured scotch into a glass and sipped. “Remember when you were in Milan with Micky? Remember the Countess Leggièri?”
Logan gave a rough half laugh. “Desideria Leggièri? She is hard to forget.”
“At her salon, you met an Iranian scientist called Malik.”
Logan reached back into memories. “A reticent little fellow with big brown eyes. He always looked like he was about to burst into tears.”
“Have you also heard the rumours that he is working on cold fusion?”
Logan felt a laugh bubble up through him but was too tired to let it emerge properly. He hiccupped his amusement and didn’t bother hiding his cynicism. “Give me a break. Cold fusion? Not even the States is bothering to pay for research into cold fusion anymore. It was proved impossible. Someone’s well and truly jerking you around.”
“It wasn’t proved impossible, actually. People just stopped paying for research to prove it was possible. Well, not all people, it turns out.”
Logan pushed a hand through his hair and could almost feel the grit under his fingers. God, what he’d give for a shower…. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get one right now. “You’re serious? Malik really was working on cold fusion?”
“The Iranians can see ahead to a time of diminishing oil reserves, too. A cheap, abundant, virtually unlimited supply of energy to replace their oil is something worth paying for. But they didn’t advertise it, because most of the world would react just like you did.” Elias grinned. “They kept it all sub-rosa.”
“You’re serious,” Logan said flatly. “They had Malik working on cold fusion.”
“Not just working on it. He solved it…or so the rumours go.” Elias took a big swallow of his drink.
Logan looked at the glass in Elias’ hand, then his watch. “It’s six forty-five. A.m.,” he added for emphasis.
Elias nodded and topped up the glass.
“Do I need one of those?” Logan asked.
“You might.”
“Try me.”
“The Iranians have been trying to keep this a secret for six weeks, probably because it’s too embarrassing.”
Logan took a startled breath. “Malik defected.”
Elias nodded vigorously as he swallowed. “He took his notebook with him.”
“His location is unknown?”
“That’s the only part of the secret that’s stayed submerged. No one knows where the guy is. Which is probably just as well because his life wouldn’t be worth spit.”
Logan found himself nodding too. Cold fusion, unlike the current forms of nuclear power, produced little to no radioactive fallout and could theoretically be rigged up on a kitchen table. That made it a cheap, clean, endless source of energy. If Malik really had found a reliable method to produce a controllable fusion reaction, then every country in the world would want it and would do anything to have it. East, west, Christian, Muslim, rich, poor, democracy or dictatorship, it didn’t matter. Malik was smart to keep himself invisible.
Elias topped up his glass again. His unmeasured slugs had half-emptied the scotch bottle. “Malik wants to hand over a copy of his notebook to the west,” he said and drank.
Excitement flared in Logan’s veins. “Who in the west? The States? England? Someone neutral—Switzerland?”
Elias sipped and grinned. “You.”
Logan could feel his heart creak and stutter as he stared at Elias. “Me?” His lips felt rubbery. “Why me?”
“You’ll have to ask him that when you see him. He’s set up a meeting for eight a.m. in Golden Gate Park.”
“That’s why you bundled me on a plane. You’re playing it tight, Elias. Why the hell did you send me to Stockholm? I could have been here fifteen hours ago. I could have been prepped.”
“It took a while for the message to filter through. Young Malik is playing it very tight and controlled. He sent the open code message through the Countess Leggièri, who contacted the American consulate in Milan, which was where you were ‘working’ when she knew you. They passed it back to the States, who passed it to the CIA and they forwarded to us. It took a while.”
Logan picked up the scotch bottle and swigged from it. “Cold fusion….” Now that Logan was getting used to the idea that cold fusion wasn’t a hoax, that it really existed, the sheer enormity of the prize being dangled was hard to encompass. That the Iranians would have kept it secret for all the years necessary to develop the methodology made sense, given the disappointing results everywhere else in the world. The Iranians were naturally secretive to begin with and didn’t take kindly to being laughed at. If this was real, if cold fusion really was possible and Malik knew how to do it, then it would revolutionize energy around the world. No, more than that. It would completely change the world. At least. And Malik was offering it to him.
“You need to get moving, Logan.”
Logan stared at him, as suspicion finally bloomed. “He really asked for me? By name?”
“He really asked for you.” Elias drained his glass. “W
hy?”
“It occurs to me that this is the perfect lock-in for you. Yet another job I just have to do.”
Elias’ face hardened. “Christ, we’re talking about something that will revolutionize life as we know it, Logan. I don’t appreciate being accused of lying.”
“Save the princess routine,” Logan shot back. “You lie for a living.”
“Not to my own team.”
Logan lifted a brow and looked at him steadily.
It was all the reminder Elias needed but it was the wrong reminder. Elias’ expression turned thundery. “Get your ass to that goddam park before I kick you there. Talk to the man. Find out what he wants. Maybe you can find your exit door after that.”
“Right.” Logan picked up his coat, the only item he’d removed since walking in the room and sinking down onto the bed.
Elias picked up the nearly empty scotch bottle. “You selfish son of a bitch. You know what happens if the wrong people get to that notebook first but you still want to bale on everyone.”
Logan took a breath. “I’ve given you ten years, Elias. You know why I want out. It’s not selfishness. Anyway, I’m going, aren’t I?”
“Good,” Elias growled. It was the last word Logan heard before he shut the door.
As Logan walked back toward the elevator, tiredness gnawed at him. It never seemed to properly leave him these days, which worried him. How long before he made a fatal mistake because of it?
Please let it not be this time.
Yeah and he’d made that plea more than once lately too.
Chapter Three
Sahara massaged her temples to ease away the sudden hard pounding. “Could you s-say that again, Howard?” She wasn’t surprised that her voice shook.
Howard sucked his coffee spoon clean and leaned forward over the huge breakfast platters. “I know. It’s a shocker. But you’d rather hear it now than later, right?”
“Six months? That’s all I’ve got?” She willed him to say something different this time, so she could laugh the moment off as a wild misunderstanding.
“Yes. About six months, if you keep running your business the way you have.” Howard picked up his knife and fork and tapped the pile of files sitting on the table between them with the butt of his fork. “It’s all these credit accounts you’re allowing, Sahara. I warned you about these a few years ago.”
Dead Double Page 2