“Wait a minute. If I go back to Tallinn and Tom comes here to Koekelberg, we won’t even get to see each other. That isn’t fair.”
“Sorry, Jan. I wasn’t thinking about your personal life. Please take time to share a cup of coffee at the airport, then get your butt back into Estonia. Are we clear on that?” Marty Atkins put an edge to his voice. “Now Kyle, you obviously can’t do this thing alone. So while the analysts are finding a target, you go ahead and pick out a strike team, anybody you want, and we’ll arrange to have them…”
Swanson put up a palm to signal him to stop. “I’ve already got my team.”
“Who?”
“I’m not going to tell you that, Marty. I think there is a leak in this pipeline and this is going to be a high-risk job. Trust me. Keep a really tight need-to-know lid on everything.”
“Well, in any case, it is going to take a couple of days to move some operatives into position.…”
“We’re already here, Marty. I can stage in twenty-four hours.”
“You can get the needed hardware from NATO.…”
“I have everything we need, except, maybe, for transport. Give us a target and we can roll.”
Brokk was dead. There was not a shred of proof for that conclusion, but Anneli Kallasti knew in her heart that it was true. The Disappeareds never came back, and Brokk’s rising stature as an anti-Russian political firebrand had sealed his fate. She was bundled in a heavy coat, and stood alone near the bow of the big yacht, her forearms on the rail as an icy wind flecked her face with spray from the waves, mixing with her tears. He was gone. The municipal election in Narva, on which they had placed so much hope, would be held this Sunday and the pro-Russian candidates would likely win. With Brokk gone, no one had stepped forward to replace him, and there was no organized opposition to the big, heavy claw that pressed down on the city to keep it firmly in line for Moscow. Pushkin’s handpicked man would become the mayor, Konstantin Pran of the Workers’ Party would take over next week, and the future of her country and home city would be up in the air.
The Vagabond had been sailing gently for hours through the swells. It did not matter to her, for her entire life was vanishing. Only a week ago, she had been a waitress, a student, a lover, a political activist and a young woman with a long, bright life ahead of her. Estonia needed her, but she could not return there, for she was a fugitive wanted on a trumped-up murder charge. Her only crime had been the mild and flirty kidnapping of a young Russian soldier for less than a day and setting him free unharmed. He probably had never mentioned it to anyone.
Her only female friend now was Jan Hollings of the CIA, the beautiful and smart but volatile woman who would play a big role from here on. It was too early to determine what that might be, although Anneli had spent a long time trying to guess. On the male side, she was in the magnetic field of Kyle Swanson, which was both a comfortable and frightening place to be. His decisions would have just as large an impact on her as would those of Calico. Anneli felt as though she was being pulled in a dozen different ways. If trust was the final issue, then she would go with Kyle.
She inhaled the salty air. The lights of other ships were in plain view as they sailed through the North Sea beneath the midnight sky. The weather had cleared, but dark clouds still hid the stars. She had never been to sea before and was surprised that the waters were such busy traffic lanes. There were thousands of people around her, separated by a broad apron of water, and yet she had never felt so alone in her life.
Two shadows met on the bridge wing as Sarn’t Stan Baldwin relieved Corporal Grayson Perry for the next watch. Except when she was in her cabin, the girl was always within sight of one of the British snipers. “What’s happening, Gray?” Baldwin asked in a quiet voice.
“Nothing at all. She has been standing there for two hours now. That story about what happened with her boyfriend would be enough to shake anyone.”
“It is a difficult time for her.”
“Yes. Any word from Swanson?”
“He will meet us tomorrow. Also coming aboard, flying in from London, is Sir Jeff Cornwell himself. Maybe even a NATO general. Big doings are afoot.”
“Sounds interesting. Well, I turn her over to you now, Sar’nt, and I will hit my mattress.”
“I have her. Get some sleep.” Baldwin brought some binoculars to his eyes. The girl was just standing there at the rail, watching nothing. He wished she would go back inside. He would give her a little more time, then go and fetch her before she caught pneumonia.
19
Colonel General Valery Ivanovich Levchenko, the commander of Russia’s Western Military District, was ushered into the office of President Vladimir Pushkin at mid-morning on Wednesday, April 13. There were whispers within the upper echelon of Moscow’s military hierarchy that the flamboyant Levchenko had finally overstepped his authority and that the president intended to deal harshly with him. Reassignment away from the palatial headquarters in St. Petersburg to some staff assignment was a strong possibility, perhaps even a demotion to some job that would be so insulting that it would force a resignation. Levchenko came across the carpet in his tailored uniform and stood at stiff attention, without a word being said until the door closed.
President Pushkin came around the desk, gave a warm chortle and shook his hand. “How was your flight, Valery?” He moved to a samovar on the credenza and prepared cups of hot tea while his guest collapsed into a chair, all formality gone.
“It was good. I left clouds of doubt in St. Petersburg by dropping hints that I may not return.” Levchenko laughed again and accepted the tea. “I gather that similar rumors are circulating around here. Everyone avoided my eyes on the way in, like I was a leper.”
The president took a seat. “Yes. Pavel Sergeyev has done everything but broadcast the news of your imminent demise, so you must look appropriately chastised and saddened when you leave. Now bring me up to date. How goes the Strakov plan?”
Yevchenko drank some tea, put the cup down and opened his hands. “As expected. The man has been almost clairvoyant. NATO intelligence services are hanging on his every word, although he has given them nothing of substance. Meanwhile, the attack by one of the overflights worked out brilliantly. The MiG going down in Finland — being shot down, no less — was a statistical guarantee. Sooner or later, it had to happen. Like a clash of swords before a duel. This time, someone was cut. Strakov arranged the attack order before he left.”
The president opened a gold cigarette case and offered one to Levchenko, who declined the smoke. Pushkin took his time flicking open a lighter and inhaling, then carefully blowing a smoke ring that hung in the air. “We have received the expected protests, and have denied that the plane was on any hostile mission. The pilot simply did not know where he was because the Finns jammed his communication. When attacked, he defended himself. I have instructed our people to file a protest of our own, claiming the so-called neutral Finns should have helped rather than luring him in and opening fire without cause. The boy will get a nice posthumous medal.”
“He did an excellent job. Sacrifices have to be made at times.” The general took out his personal electronic tablet and scanned some sites before speaking again. “Now the Ivonov scheme projects that NATO will retaliate somewhere in the region.”