The Cold Edge (16 page)

“Great job,” Jake said. “He should be out cold for about eight hours.”

“Will that be enough time?”

“No. But it'll be the middle of the night. He'll tell a story and it will take them a while to check into it. Probably until morning. By then we'll be to our stop in Falun or Mora. Go back to your seat. I'll get rid of the cop's clothes, gun and ID.”

She smiled at him. “This is all too natural to you. Are you sure you worked for the government?”

He put his hand behind her head and kissed her on the lips. They embraced and she finally pulled away.

“Sure, change the subject,” she said as she wandered off through the sleeper car.

Alone now, Jake went into the sleeper compartment where he had stuck the cop's gear. First he made sure he had not left any fingerprints on the man's gun, and then he pulled a pillow case from a pillow and shoved everything inside. Then he looked at the window. They opened. Great.

He watched as they reached the countryside between Boden and Lulea. They were traveling at least sixty miles per hour.

The window propped inward about six inches maximum. Squishing everything in the bag as tightly as he could, he jammed the pillowcase and gear through the narrow opening. It got stuck halfway. He shoved it harder and it finally released, falling down toward the tracks below. He pushed the window shut and took a seat on the bed. How the hell had it come to this? Whatever happened to simply flying from Vienna to Oslo for a little vacation? Drink a few beers, some wine, maybe a martini or two. But no. He had to go off on some wild-ass goose chase to Bumfuck, Norway, some Arctic islands that most couldn't even find on a map, get shot at there, and fly back to the mainland, only to run into overzealous Finnish border guards and a super-vigilant Swedish cop. What next? That was his problem. He knew it would probably only get worse. Especially once he confronted Colonel Reed about the contents of the metal box. That was one helluva deadly flu virus, he quipped to himself. Time to get back to the lovely ladies. Damn, he could use a stiff drink right now.

Oslo, Norway

Jimmy McLean spent most of the day traveling around the city, trying his best to not be seen by the little man, Gary Dixon. Something was going down, Jimmy was sure of that. Dixon stopped a dozen times to talk with various people, many just as small as him, and kept checking his watch. It was as if he was on a strict time schedule. Like he had to hurry to contact all of these people before a certain deadline. There were too many of them. Jimmy had Velda in the car calling in photos and names to their headquarters. Some had been easy to ID, since they were owners of small businesses. Others they might never identify, though. At least not without a lot more manpower then the two of them. And that was the problem. With the Russians and the Chinese running so many spies inside of the U.K., most of their assets were keeping track of those thousands of operatives. Not to mention those dedicated to the war on terror. They were stretched too thin in all directions. It was amazing to Jimmy they had dedicated he and Velda to this cause.

Now, Jimmy pulled over to the curb in front of Dixon's hotel. The little man had just scooted out of his cab and into the lobby.

“What you think Gary is into?” Velda asked.

“Who knows. It's hard to believe he could be into anything dealing with international terrorism. The guy can barely keep his own shoes tied. And everything he has ever done involves thievery of some sort. The guy started out in a pickpocket crew in Aberdeen. Then he moved onto ripping off tourists in Edinburgh and Glasgow. All before the age of eighteen.”

“But he's never done more than a few days in jail,” Velda reminded her colleague.

“True. But it wasn't from being too slick to get caught. He's been snitching for years.”

“Maybe for both sides.”

That was a distinct possibility. But did that matter at this point? Suddenly the little guy was associating himself with a heavy Russian player. A former KGB officer with criminal activity, supposedly, from Moscow to London and all points between. According to their MI6 briefing, Petrova had built one of the largest gang of thieves in decades. But word also said that Petrova worked out of greed, not ideology. The guy had even sold his own sperm on eBay—touting it as that from a genius former Cold War KGB officer. He hadn't lied. And he had gotten bids past five thousand Euros until the website shut him down. A true entrepreneur.

●

They had followed the tall man and the little woman all over Oslo, with Colonel Reed behind the wheel and Toni Contardo in the front seat researching on the fly. She had gotten word from the Agency about the Scottish man, a dwarf by the name of Gary Dixon, saying he was involved somehow with the Russian, Victor Petrova. Just as she and the colonel had gotten to Dixon's hotel, the little man came shuffling out the front door. Then Toni spotted the other two following Dixon at a safe distance. She suspected the Norwegian Intelligence Service was running some surveillance on the little man, but had called her NIS contact, Thom Hagen, and he had confirmed they had nothing going on.

So the chase was on. The little man, Dixon, went from place to place talking with others of his stature, and even some standard size folks, while the tall man and the little woman followed him. And then Toni and the colonel kept their distance, changing places with Thom Hagen, who had caught up with them after about an hour of playing that game.

But now the little man had gone into the hotel and the cat and mouse had come to an abrupt stop. On the other hand, as far as Toni could tell they had not come across the Russian, Victor Petrova, who was now using the name Oberon.

Toni set the laptop on the car floor, checked her gun inside her jacket, and said to Colonel Reed, “All right. I'm gonna go up and see who the hell we've been following all day.”

“Is that a good idea?” Reed said. “What if they're associated with Petrova?”

She considered that and had to admit he had a point. But she still didn't completely trust the colonel. Not after how he had sent Jake to the Arctic like that without telling him the truth. “Then we'll know.”

Toni got out of the rental car, glanced back a block, catching the gaze of NIS officer Hagen, and then stepped down the sidewalk. The car was a block ahead.

She would stroll along, as if just out for a casual walk. Nobody to concern them. As she got closer to the car, she angled to the edge of the sidewalk to be out of mirror view, then cut a direct line toward the open passenger window, drawing her gun at the last second and pointing it directly at the little woman's head.

Both inside the car startled when they saw her.

“What the hell?” said the little woman.

The man instinctively swept his hand into his jacket.

“I wouldn't do that,” Toni said. She reached inside the car and unlocked the back door, then hurried into the back seat. “Who the hell are you two?”

The man spoke first. “MI6.”

She switched the gun to her left hand and leaned forward, putting her hand into his jacket and collecting his 9mm handgun and passport. She got her phone and said, “Jimmy McLean with MI6.” She flipped her phone shut and reached up for the woman's purse. Inside she found a little Walther P22, just right for her tiny hands. Then her passport. “Velda Crane. You also claim to be with MI6?”

The woman nodded her disproportionately large head. “Who are you?”

Jimmy McLean took this question. “This, Velda, is Toni Contardo with the Central Intelligence Agency. Why else would I have told her we were with MI6?”

Toni glanced at McLean in the rearview mirror.

“We heard you were in Oslo,” McLean explained, “but had no way of knowing how to contact you. Camp Springs said you were out in the cold. Hadn't heard from you in a while.”

Her phone rang and she picked up and listened, before flipping it shut with force and shoving it into her jacket pocket. Toni handed their guns and passports back to them. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Velda said. “How long were you with us?”

Toni put her gun in its holster. “All day. What was that little dwarf. . .no offense. . .”

“No problem,” Velda said.

“What was Gary Dixon up to today?” Toni finished.

“That's what we've been trying to discern,” McLean said. He explained what they knew about Dixon's activities, and how they had followed the man from Scotland to Oslo.

Toni's story was much less revealing. She wasn't one to give up information freely, and didn't trust just anyone. Hell, she didn't even trust Colonel Reed, who had been an Air Force officer and CIA and new Agency operative.

“That has to be the biggest crock of shit I've heard in a long time,” Jimmy McLean said. “Couldn't you give us a little more information than that? What happened to cooperation?”

Velda chimed in. “This Victor Petrova is a bad ass mad genius. A frickin' puppet master.”

“Half-pint is right,” McLean said.

“Half-pint?” Toni asked.

“Has nothing to do with her size,” he explained. “She always orders a half pint of beer.”

“Okay. She's right about?”

“Petrova,” he said. “Our intel says the man orchestrated so many crazy-ass schemes for the KGB, he could have started World War Three if he wanted to during the Cold War. He was that good. Now he's made millions off his criminal activity. He runs a massive organization throughout Europe.”

“And is headquartered in Stockholm,” Toni said. “I got the same briefing.” What's he up to now? That was the question of the hour. Yet not one of them could come up with a good answer.

●

Sitting in the passenger seat of his rental Volvo, Victor Petrova smiled as he listened through his ear piece as the three intelligence officers lavished praise and hatred for him and his criminal activity. His driver had reached each location Gary Dixon had gone, knowing where and when the man would be at each location. By doing so he had accomplished two goals. First, the Scotsman had delivered messages to men with mostly clean records—men who themselves would not do a damn thing for him, but who would pass the word to those who would act soon. And second, he had collected all the players in this grand game of his, from the two Brits to this new Agency woman. He had heard of Toni Contardo from his days in the KGB. She was more than a little capable. No match for his intellect. But then few were. So she had teamed up with Colonel Reed in some way. Disturbing, but not completely unexpected. Still, the colonel had served his purpose, sending Jake Adams off to the Arctic to do his work for him. Sure he could have sent his men to accomplish the same task. But there was no reason to involve the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. Sure the SVR was no KGB, but even the blind hamster finds his way up the actor's ass once in a while. Maybe he was the puppet master. He smiled.

Jake stretched his legs out in the sleeper car—the very same car where he had thrown the police officer's clothes and then dumped them out the window. Anna was asleep on the upper bunk and Kjersti was alone in her compartment next door to them.

They had traveled for hours along the Swedish coast, passed through the seaport cities of Umea and Sundsvall, and at nearly one in the morning were at least an hour away from Gavle, some hundred miles north of Stockholm.

He had had plenty of time to think about this case during the ride. They had been lucky the Swedish police had not invaded the train at one of their stops and hauled them all in. He couldn't let that happen, though. The box he carried with him, with the Russian words and the international symbol for biohazard stamped prominently on four sides, would put him in jail faster than he could consider. Sure he could have his friends at the Agency get him out, assuming they would be willing to do so. But with what he had discovered before getting on the train, they might not be willing to help Jake in any way. He needed to contact the Agency and Colonel Reed. But first his friend at the Agency.

He reached into his backpack and found the SAT phone.

When he turned on the phone, he saw that he had missed thirteen calls. Ten from scrambled Agency numbers that would lead to pizza places in New Jersey and Chinese restaurants in Portland, Oregon. The other three were from the untraceable number from Colonel Reed. A number that when punched in by anyone else finding the phone, or stealing it, would be picked up by a Swiss sheep herder—which Jake was sure would piss that guy off to no end.

Jake called Jenkins at the Agency, who picked up on the second ring.

“Where the hell are you?” Jenkins asked hurriedly.

“Come on, Kurt,” Jake said, his voice barely a whisper. “This is a GPS-enabled SAT phone, which I'm sure you broke the code for during our first call. Even with the phone turned off, you can track me.”

“Why do I even try?” He stopped and said, “Okay. You're traveling at a steady one hundred thirty kilometers per hour at sea level. So that would put you on the night train heading toward Stockholm.”

“I could be driving,” Jake muttered.

“I don't think so, Jake. I know your driving. It's not that steady. Plus our people have tracked your stops in each city. Also, we got a report about some cop getting his ass whipped. When they sent out the description, it sounded like you.”

“You take care of it?”

“Yeah. First we altered the description, and then we wiped it from their system. Made it go away.”

“Thanks. That's why I didn't dump the SAT phone. Thought you could be of some use.”

“Glad to help. But aren't you taking a risk traveling on a train with that deadly virus?”

Crap. He had a feeling Jenkins would bring that up. It's why he really didn't call in his actions. He was hoping to finish the train travel before he had to explain his actions.

“I know what I'm doing,” Jake assured him.