by Mark Parragh
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 landfill. 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 he hoped 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 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 31
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 around 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 t
o 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 reasonable 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.
He grabbed his phone and dictated a text message to his men. They would converge and destroy.
When the plane landed, Georges had hoped Crane would be aboard. But the pilot was an older man, and he was alone. Georges felt a quick rush of disappointment and went back to his work.
It was perhaps five minutes later when his laptop pinged at him. There was a sudden surge in SMS traffic. Since Georges set up his system to capture and log all SMS messages through the airport, he’d counted three different network IDs sending almost all the messages at the airport. Roughly every fifteen minutes, one sent group messages to the other two, and they replied individually. He figured they were just checking in with each other, and his translator software confirmed it.
But now the system was lighting up with traffic. As he was watching, another group message went out. Something was definitely going on.
Georges’ fingers flew across the keys as he sent the new messages to the online translator. As the first result came back, his heart leapt into his throat.
“He is here. West end of terminal.”
The other two confirmed. One sent back something the translator program rendered as “Transfer.” Georges assumed that meant the sender was on his way there.
He’d been right! Crane was here!
Georges pulled up a command file from his library and loaded it into the SMS system. Hold all messages for confirmation before sending, it told the server. Now Georges was in charge of their communications. He could shut them down completely, or he could let some messages get through and block others. Or he could edit them, he realized. He’d have to figure out what he wanted to say and then run it back through the translator to get the Icelandic. It would be crude, but it might fool them for a little while.
Georges paired his smart phone to his laptop so he could operate the whole thing from there. Then he closed his laptop and hurriedly shoved it into his bag. He needed to get moving. He had to find Crane before they did.
Chapter 32
The approach road came in from the main highway off to Crane’s right and made a teardrop shape as it circled around to the terminal. Crane walked along it and considered whether to go inside the terminal or stay outside. He needed to get to the maintenance and general aviation facilities at the far end of the airport. That was where he would find a small air cargo or charter operation. Outside, he decided. He’d seen nothing suspicious out here so far.
He glanced into the terminal as he passed the front doors and saw a black Datafall uniform. One man, moving fast.
Crane veered toward the temporary parking lot inside the circle of the approach road. Had the man seen him? If so, Crane would try to lead him to the parking lot where the cars would provide at least some cover.
But he hadn’t seen Crane. He left the terminal and headed toward the employee lot Crane had just come from.
Crane moved quickly in the other direction, edging close in to the wall of the terminal. A few yards down, there was a heavy metal fire door. As Crane passed it, the door buzzed open, and a shape lurched out and nearly collided with him. Crane let his training take over. He grabbed the man, spun him off balance, and positioned him so he could easily put him on the ground. Then he froze, realizing he was looking into the startled face of Georges Benly Akema. Georges took a moment to process the situation, then laughed with incongruous delight.
“I found you!” he said. “I actually did it! And you’re alive!”
Crane pulled Georges away from the door and let it swing shut. “What the hell are you doing? How did you even get here?”
“I got a plane,” said Georges. “It’s on Grimsey Island. And there’s a boat waiting in town. I knew they’d be watching. They know you’re here!”
“Yes, but how do you know that?”
Georges’ phone beeped and he checked the screen. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “They figured out you’re not there anymore.”
Crane could see the black-clad shape of the guard making his way back toward the main entrance.
“Come on,” Crane said, and started back out toward the parking lot. Georges followed, only partly watching where he was going as he tapped at his phone.
“What are you doing?” Crane asked.
“They’re communicating by SMS,” Georges said, “so I hacked the cell.”
They crouched behind a van, and Georges quickly explained that there were three Datafall people here, one directing the other two. He showed Crane how he was translating and reading their messages before sending them on.
“So you can shut them down. Can you send them false messages?”
“Sure. I can translate into Icelandic, but it’s probably going to sound a little twonky.”
With the adrenaline rush and the fear of a nearby enemy, Crane guessed they wouldn’t worry too much about odd phrasings. “Keep it simple,” he said. “Tell the one over there where we are. Just him.”
“You want him to come here?”
“Yes,” said Crane. “Yes, I do.”
Georges took a deep breath and nodded. He tapped his phone and said “He’s in the front parking lot. Go.”
A moment later, the phone returned a screen of computer-generated Icelandic. Georges assumed it was technically correct, but was it the way people actually spoke, or would it immediately tell the Datafall people that their communications had been intercepted? How could he know?
He turned the screen to Crane, who looked at it and shrugged. “I don’t know. Send it.”
Georges sent it. He was breathing hard again, and he could feel himself trembling. Crane looked alert, but calm and ready. How did he do that? Was it just a matter of experience? What made him able to do the things he did? Georges had always been in awe of Crane, but eve
n more so here in the field, where Georges could barely think for the drumbeat of fear and the steady rush of adrenaline. He was not cut out for this.
One of the phones sent back a quick acknowledgement. Georges told the server to delete it instead of forwarding it on to the team leader.
“Stay here, and stay down,” Crane hissed. Then he quickly crossed over to the next row of cars and crouched behind a BMW sedan. Georges heard footsteps running down the sidewalk to the lot. They stopped at the first row of cars, one over. Crane peered down, beneath the BMW’s chassis. Then he gestured for Georges to move farther back.
Georges was extremely aware of every sound. The footsteps, moving more cautiously now. The rustle of his clothes as he edged back against the van. His heartbeat—how could the man not hear that?
Crane tensed to spring and rapped the fender of the car he was crouched behind. Georges heard the footsteps rush suddenly forward, saw the black-clad figure emerge from between two cars and turn. But he didn’t turn toward Crane and the sound. The man turned toward him instead, and their eyes met.
Georges saw surprise register on the man’s face. He saw the split-second decision to fire. He tried to move, but his body refused. He saw the pistol rising, the suppressor on its barrel pointing into his eyes, the yawning black abyss of the muzzle.
Then Crane tackled him from behind as the gun went off. They went down, and the Datafall man’s face planted hard into the asphalt not five feet away from him. Georges saw blood. Crane put a knee hard into his back, grabbed his hair with his left hand, and slammed his face into the pavement again. The man spasmed and dropped the gun. Crane snatched it up and hammered the back of his skull with the butt. Georges saw awareness fade from the man’s face, and he sank onto the pavement in a pool of his own blood and broken teeth.