“More red tape.” Drake gestured to Dahl. “This is fast becoming an outbreak.”
A heavy silence followed, then Dahl’s mobile rang. “Oh, my,” he said in reaction. “Den Statsminister.”
Drake made a face at Kennedy and Ben. “Prime Minister.”
Some respectful, but nevertheless candid words were passed that increased Drake’s respect for Torsten Dahl. The Special Forces officer told his boss the way it was. Drake was gloomily convinced he was going to end up liking this guy.
Dahl ended the call, and then spent a moment gathering his thoughts. At last he looked up and addressed the plane.
“Straight from a member of the President’s Cabinet, his closest advisors,” Dahl told them. “This flight will not be cleared to land.”
Three hours to go.
“They wouldn’t inform the President,” Dahl said. “Washington DC and Capitol Hill is deeply immersed in this, my friends. The Statsminister says it has gone global now, a conspiracy of international proportions and nobody knows who supports who. That alone,” he said frowning, “speaks to the gravity of our mission.”
“Cluster-fuck,” Drake said. “It’s what we used to call a fuck-up on a massive scale.”
Ben, in the meantime, had tried the Curator of the National History Museum again. All he got was voicemail. “Not right,” he said. “He should have checked on something by now.” Ben’s dextrous fingers immediately began flying over the virtual keyboard.
“Got an idea,” he said loudly. “Hope to God I’m wrong.”
Then Wells rang back, explaining that his SAS team had sneaked a landing at an abandoned New Jersey airfield. The team was inbound towards central New York, travelling by any means necessary.
Drake checked the time. Two hours to landing.
And then Ben cried out: “Nailed it!” Everyone jumped. Even the Swedish Marines gave him their full attention.
“It’s here!” he shouted. “Plastered all over the internet, if you have the time to look.” He jabbed at the screen angrily.
“Colby Taylor,” he said. “The Canadian billionaire is the National History Museum’s biggest contributor and one of New York’s major financiers. Whatcha bet he made a few calls?”
Dahl grimaced. “That’s our blockage,” he groaned. “The man they say owns more people than the Mafia.” For the first time, the Swedish officer appeared to slump in his seat.
Kennedy couldn’t hide the hate. “Fat-cat suits win again,” she hissed. “Bet the bastard’s a banker as well.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Drake said. “I always have a Plan B.”
One hour to go.
SEVENTEEN
The Port Authority Police Department of New York is arguably best known for its humbling bravery and loss during the events of September 11th. What it is less known for is its covert handling of most SAS flights originating out of Europe. Whilst not employing a dedicated team to police this element of its work, the intercontinental personnel involved are in such a small minority that, over the years, many of them have become close friends.
Drake made one more call. “Coming in hot tonight,” he told Jack Schwarz, PAPD Inspector. “You missed me, pal?”
“Jeez, Drake, been… what? Two years?”
“Three. New Year’s Eve, ’07.”
“Wife okay?”
“Alyson and I split, mate. That enough chitchat to mark my identity?”
“Thought you left the Service.”
“I did. Wells called me back for one last job. He call you?”
“He did. Said you promised him some Mai-time.”
“Did he now? Schwarz, listen to me. This is your call. You should know that the shit will hit the fan, and that our entry will be traced back to you, eventually. I’m sure, by then, we’ll all be heroes and this will be considered a favourable act, but…”
“Wells filled me in,” Schwarz said, but Drake heard the undertone of unease. “Don’t worry, bud. I still have enough juice to swing landing permission.”
Their plane glided into U.S. airspace.
The plane landed in weak daylight and taxied right up to a small terminal building. The minute the door cracked open, twelve fully loaded members of the Swedish SGG jogged double-time down the rickety metal stairs and piled into three waiting vehicles. Drake, Ben, Kennedy and the Professor followed, Ben almost wetting himself when he saw their transport.
“They look like Hummers!”
A minute later the cars shot down an empty runway, picking up speed, aiming for a concealed exit at the back of the inconspicuous airfield that, after a few turns, emptied onto a discreet slip-road to join one of Manhattan’s main tributaries.
New York City stretched out before them in all its splendour. Modern skyscrapers, old bridges, classic architecture. Their convoy cut directly to the heart of the city, taking chances, using every wily short-cut known to their native drivers. Horns blared at them, curses curdled the air, kerbs and trash cans were clipped. On one occasion, a one-way street was employed that cut seven minutes off their journey and caused three fender-benders.
Inside the cars the action was almost as hectic. Dahl, at last, got the call from the Swedish Prime Minister, who had finally reached a friendly FBI suit and received clearance to enter the Museum if they got there first.
Dahl turned to their driver. “Faster!”
Ben handed Dahl a map of the museum, complete with the Wolves’ location.
More information filtered through. Black-and-whites had arrived. Rapid Response teams were being notified.
Drake reached Wells. “Sitch?”
“We’re outside. Cop-cavalry arrived two minutes ago. You?”
“Twenty away. Give us a shout if anything happens.” Something caught his eye, and he fixed on something outside the window for a moment. An intense feeling of déjà vu sent shivers dancing across his ribs as he saw a huge billboard proclaiming the arrival of the fashion designer, Abel Frey, in New York, along with his stunning cat-walk show.
That’s mad, Drake thought. Truly insane.
Ben had awakened his sister in the U.K. and, still breathless at their mode of transport, managed to enrol her for Project Valkyrie — as he called it. “Saves time,” he told Dahl. “She can continue the research whilst we’re in there saving those Wolves. Don’t worry, she thinks it’s because I want to photograph them for my degree.”
“Lying to sis?” Drake frowned.
“He’s growing up.” Kennedy patted Blake’s arm. “Give the kid some space.”
Drake’s mobile chirped. He didn’t have to check the caller I.D. to know it was Wells. “Don’t tell me, mate. The Canadians?”
Wells laughed softly. “You wish.”
“Eh?”
“Both the Canadians and the Germans, using separate routes. This war’s about to get started without you. ”
Dahl said: “A Rapid Response SWAT team is three minutes away. Frequency is 68.”
Drake glanced out of the wide window. “We’re here.”
“Central Park West entrance,” Ben said as they exited the cars. “Leads to the only two sets of staircases that ascend from the lower level all the way to the fourth floor.”
Kennedy jumped out into the morning heat. “Which floor houses the Wolves?”
“Fourth.”
“Figures.” Kennedy shrugged, and patted her midriff. “Knew I’d end up regretting those holiday pastries.”