She shook her head, eyes wide, at Daniel. What noise would he make if he were stabbed in the gullet? Worse, she decided, than the noises he made in their office.
But Officer Møller looked sternly at her and proceeded to climb. He must have been petrified.
As his legs disappeared from view, she spun around a full 360 degrees, too quickly, and her head felt momentarily giddy. She heard boots clanging on the metal ladder, the noise growing louder. Daniel coming back down? Or a murderer?
She trained her gun on the ladder. Her hands were shaking so much that she decided she’d have to fire at least three shots to stand a chance of hitting anything near the stairway.
Boots came into view, then legs.
Then Daniel.
Thank God.
Officer Møller shook his head. The cabin was empty. Did that mean they could leave now? Clearly not, because Daniel was moving onward, now holding his gun in two hands, his breathing louder than ever. Officer Møller obviously knew more about boats than she did and was leading her to a place they’d not yet searched.
He stopped by some steps, leaned right into her, cupped his hand over his and her mouth, and whispered, “The hold.” His breath smelled of raw beef and eggs. Johanne decided she definitely needed to wean him off that filth. “It’s the last place to check and most likely where he’s hiding.” He tried to smile, but the fear and tension on his face made it impossible to do so. “Drinks on me?”
Johanne nodded. Strange time and place for her to agree to a date, but under the circumstances, why not?
She followed him down metal stairs into the dimly lit base of the boat, swallowing hard while praying to God that fear didn’t make her suddenly burst into tears.
Will tensed and looked at his handgun. Any moment now. Had to be ready, move quickly, get the job done, then get out of here. No time to think now. Everything’s instinctual. No matter what comes your way, use maximum force, no hesitation, no guilt, no compassion toward anyone carrying a weapon.
Møller reached the bottom of the stairs, his pistol held at eye level, and braced himself for a gunshot to the chest or head. If that happened, he hoped Johanne had time to turn around and run away. It was her best option, and she should just keep running, away from the boat, the jetty, Tasiilaq, and her job in the police. At least his death wouldn’t then be pointless.
The boat’s cargo hold stretched the length of the trawler, not much bigger than a regular-sized living room, but was cluttered with crates, nets, lobster pots, tools, blankets, oilskin clothes, ropes, lanterns, and buoys. There were plenty of places for a man to hide.
He had to search the place thoroughly while acting like Johanne’s superior officer, even though he wasn’t even up to a bit of acting, let alone professional policing. Moving between the crates, he could hear Johanne behind him, breathing as fast as he was. The air was salty and fetid, from damp clothing and rotting fish and mollusks, and made him gag. Or maybe it was the wretched feeling inside.
His head banged against a low-hanging naked lightbulb, which swung wildly on its single cord, throwing haphazard light into the hold’s dim recesses and causing Johanne to shriek. He grabbed the cord to steady the bulb, silently cursed, and continued moving around the room. Both officers checked behind anything that could conceal a man, lifted blankets and nets, kicked stuff to see if it prompted a killer to bolt from his hidey-hole, and finally used whatever tools they could find to lever open every crate in the room.
When they were finished, Møller looked at Johanne. Tears ran down his cheeks as he said between sobs, “He’s not here. No one’s here. Thank… thank…” He could no longer speak, and instead stepped forward and hugged Johanne. They were alive.
Will Cochrane scrutinized the coastline and felt relief. No cops, no others, no danger.
He thrust his pistol into his jacket, leapt from the small rubber dinghy into knee-deep water, flicked open a knife, and used it to slash the rubber. He watched the strong ebb take the shredded boat quickly back out to sea, grabbed the two oars that were floating by his legs, and walked onto the thin strip of pebbly beach. After five minutes, both oars were buried under stones. Within a couple of hours, the wash would probably expose them again, but by then it wouldn’t matter. He’d be long gone.
He ran off the beach, up higher ground until he was on an empty area of ice-covered flatland, beyond which were mountains. Spinning around, he went down on one knee, pulled out the scope from the sniper rifle he’d left in Norway, and stared through it. Three-quarters of a mile away was Tasiilaq. He could see the port’s jetty, the trawler, the captain and his crew, and a man he didn’t know standing close to them while holding a pistol. A man and a woman, wearing cop uniforms, exited the boat and joined the group. The woman was smiling, the man was speaking, and both were holstering their pistols. The other man gave him his handgun and slapped him on the shoulder before turning toward the captain and holding out his hand. The captain hesitated, then beamed, shook the man’s hand, reached down into the crate by his feet, and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, which he uncorked with his teeth. He passed the bottle around and everyone on the jetty took a swig. The male cop held his hand to his chest and vomited onto the pier before smiling and shaking his head. The female cop laughed, then she too threw up. Their bodies were reacting to the fear and adrenaline they’d felt moments ago.
Will had known he might have trouble getting off the vessel once it had berthed. That’s why he’d insisted that instead the trawler crew lower a dinghy alongside the boat while they were still out at sea, so that Will could row to a place on the shoreline that was out of sight of the port.
He was glad it had happened that way and that the people who’d come looking for him had ended the day’s adventures with nothing worse than a glug of the captain’s awful liquor. And he was also relieved that he hadn’t needed to confront any other potential danger on this bit of coastline.
He pulled his jacket hood onto his head and ran toward a destination in Greenland that contained people who were infinitely more deadly than those he’d seen a moment ago.
ELEVEN
CIA director Ed Parker was standing on a Washington sidewalk. Next to him were Senator Colby Jellicoe and his Agency colleague Charles Sheridan. Cars moved slowly past them with their windshield wipers and headlights on full because the torrential downpour made visibility poor, though it was only midafternoon. On the other side of the street was the imposing Dirksen Senate Office Building, renovated fifteen years previously to make its numerous committee hearing rooms more television friendly. In thirty minutes, Jellicoe would be sitting in one of those rooms, with cameras pointing at him while he testified to some of his colleagues.
Parker raised his umbrella so that he could see Jellicoe’s face. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
Jellicoe smiled.
Sheridan did not. “Shut up, Parker.”
“Don’t talk to a senior officer…”
“Senior to me by one grade, and only ’cause your paycheck says so.” Sheridan flicked a finger against the tip of Parker’s nose. “Having a fancy title doesn’t give you the right to get all ladyboy on us.”