Drake glanced around. The aeroplane was small, but roomy. Eleven Special Forces Marines sat in the back, lounging, snoozing, and generally bulling each other up in Swedish. Dahl snapped constantly on the phone across the aisle, and in front of him the Professor rolled out scroll after scroll, resting each one delicately on the seat-back, scanning for the ancient differences between fact and fiction.
To his immediate left, Kennedy, back to wearing her Number One formless pantsuit, made her first call. “Captain Lipkind there?… ahh, tell him it’s Kennedy Moore.”
Ten seconds passed, then: “No. Tell him he can’t ring me back. This is important. Tell him it’s about national security if you want, just get him.”
Ten more seconds, then: “Moore!” Drake heard the bark, even from where he sat. “Can’t it wait?”
“Listen to me, Captain, there’s a situation. First, check with Officer Swane of the FBI. I’m here with Torsten Dahl of the Swedish SGG, and an SAS officer. The National History Museum is under direct threat. Check the details and call me back straight away. I need your help.”
Kennedy closed her phone and let out a deep breath. “Bang goes my pension.”
Drake checked his watch. Six hours until landing.
Ben’s mobile chirped, and he snatched it up. “Sis?”
Professor Parnevik was leaning out across the aisle, chasing an errant scroll with a veiny arm. “Kid knows his Valkyries.” He said to no one in particular. “But where are they? And the Eyes — yes, I will find the Eyes.”
Ben was saying. “Great stuff, Karin. E-mail me the blueprints of the museum, and highlight that room for me. Then send the Curator’s details by separate mail. Hey, Sis, say hi to Mum and Dad. Love ya.”
Ben resumed his clicking, then started taking a few more notes. “Got the museum Curator’s number,” he shouted. “Dahl? Want me to scare the crap out of him?”
Drake broke out into a disbelieving smile as the Swedish intelligence officer waved a frantic No! without dropping a vowel. It was good to see Ben exhibiting this kind of confidence. The geek had withdrawn a little to allow the man inside some room to breathe.
Kennedy’s phone broke out into song. She flipped it open quickly, but not before she treated the entire plane to a snatch of The Pretty Reckless playing Goin’ Down.
Ben nodded in time. “Nice. Our next cover song for sure.”
“Moore.” Kennedy flicked her speaker-phone on.
“What the crap is going on? I’m blocked by half a dozen shit-heels, and then told, not so politely, to keep my nose in the gutter where it belongs. Something’s got all the big dogs barking, Moore, and I’m betting it’s you.” He paused, then said reflectively: “Not for the first time, I guess.”
Kennedy gave him the abbreviated version that ended with a plane full of Swedish Marines and an unknown SAS team en route, now five hours away from U.S. soil.
Drake felt a flutter. Five hours.
At that moment Dahl shouted: “New intel! Just heard the Canadians weren’t even in Sweden. It seems they sacrificed the World Tree and the Spear to concentrate on the Valkyries.” He sent a nod of praise towards Ben, pointedly excluding the grimacing Professor. “But… they came up empty-handed. This private collector must be a real recluse… or…” Drake shrugged, “he could be a criminal.”
“Good suggestion. Anyway men — this is where it gets ugly. The Canadians are gearing up to hit the museum early morning, NYC time.”
Kennedy’s face took on a murderous look as she listened to both her boss and Dahl at the same time. “They’re using the date,” she suddenly hissed to both parties as it hit her. “Those absolute bastards — and the Germans, no doubt — are concealing their real intentions behind the fuckin’ date.”
Ben looked up. “I’ve lost track.”
Drake echoed him. “What date?”
“When we land in NYC,” Dahl explained, “it’ll be around eight A.M. on September 11th.”
SIXTEEN
Four hours left. The aircraft droned on through the soupy sky.
Dahl said: “I’ll try the FBI again. But it’s odd. I can’t get past this level of screening. It’s a friggin’ stone wall. Ben — call the Curator. Drake — your old boss. Clock’s ticking, men, and we’re nowhere. This hour requires progress. Let’s go.”
Kennedy was pleading with her boss: “Shit on Thomas Kaleb, Lipkind,” she said. “This has nothing to do with him, or my damn career. I’m telling you something the FBI, the CIA and all those other three-letter-pricks don’t know. I’m asking…” she paused, “I guess I’m asking you to trust me.”
“Three- letter- pricks,” Ben grunted. “Brilliant.”
Drake wanted to slide up to Kennedy Moore and offer a few words of encouragement. The civilian in him wanted to hug her, but the solider made him stay aloof.
But the civilian was starting to win that battle. He’d used the word gronk earlier to ‘soldierise’ her, to rebuff the growing spark of a feeling he recognised, but it hadn’t worked.
Wells answered his call. “Speak now.”
“Been listening to Taylor again? Look, where we at, mate? You talked us into U.S. airspace yet?”
“Well — yes… and no. I’m hitting reams of red tape, Drake, and that doesn’t sit well on my lap — ” He waited a while, then grunted in disappointment. “That was a Mai reference, pal. Try to keep up.”
Drake smiled despite himself. “Damn you, Wells. Look, keep your head together for this mission — help us out — and I’ll tell you about the filthiest club in Hong King where Mai ever worked undercover, called the Spinning Top.”
“Fuck me, that sounds intriguing. You’re on, my man. Look, we’re en route, tooled up to the gusset, and my people over the pond have no problem with that.”
Drake sensed the ‘but’. “Yes?”
“Someone in authority is denying landing privileges and no one’s ever heard of your plane, and that, my friend, smacks of insider corruption.”
Drake heard him. “Okay, keep me posted.” The careful press of a button ended the call.
He heard Kennedy say: “Low level is perfect, Captain. I’m overhearing chatter here that speaks of conspiracy. Be… be careful, Lipkind.”
She closed her phone. “Well, he’s prickly, but he’s taking me at my word. He’s sending as many black-and-whites to the scene as he can, low key. And he knows someone in the local Homeland Security field office,” she said, smoothing her limp blouse. “Beans are being spilled.”
Christ, Drake thought. There’s a shitload of firepower heading for that museum. Enough to start a damn war. He didn’t say anything out loud, but he did check his watch.
Three hours left.
Ben was still involved with the curator: “Look, we’re not talking a major overhaul here, just moving the exhibit. I don’t need to tell you how large the museum is, sir. Just move it, and all will be well. Yes… the SGG… Swedish Special Forces. The FBI are being informed as we speak…no! Don’t wait for them to call. You can’t afford to delay.”
Fifteen seconds of silence, then: “You never heard of SGG? Well, Google it!” Ben jabbed at his phone in frustration. “He’s stalling,” Ben said. “I just know it. He sounded cagey, like he couldn’t think of enough excuses.”