Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol)

by Christoffer Petersen

  “It makes sense,” Hákon said. “You showed me the pictures of what Cantrell did to that woman…”

  “Ferne Butcher.”

  “And Cantrell used to work for the Spurring Group.”

  “Did I actually say that?” Ansel frowned. “Never mind. Keep going, Sherlock.”

  “So it makes sense that the Spurring Group would send one of their own after Cantrell, otherwise…”

  “What?”

  “There would be more police. More roadblocks. The two police constables in the village would have known Cantrell’s name, not just the car registration. You would have more eyes on the street, not just cameras in specific locations.”

  “You’ve put a lot of thought into it. I’ll give you that.” Ansel slowed for the next junction, pulling onto the slipway and then turning right, following signs for a private airfield. “It’s an old Spitfire base,” he said, as he slowed at the gate. “Hurricanes too, of course. Probably more of them than Spits. Anyway, I’ll just be a second.” Ansel pulled the handbrake on, letting the engine idle as he chatted with the guard at the gate.

  Hákon shifted in his seat, ignoring a sudden jolt of pain in his foot. He pulled out his phone, frowned at the low battery status, then tried to call Etienne. After two tries with number unavailable Hákon sent a message instead, estimating his time of arrival in Sweden to be before nightfall, and that he would call when he knew where in Sweden he was landing. He pocketed his phone and looked at the sleek Gulfstream jet aircraft at the end of the runway. A group of four men, possibly one woman, carried gear from the back of a Land Rover up the stairs and into the aircraft. Hákon thought he saw one of the men carry skis on his shoulder, and a weapons case in his hand. Ansel jolted Hákon out of his observation with a double tap on the bonnet, before opening the driver’s door.

  “We’re all set,” he said, settling in behind the wheel and shifting the van into gear. Ansel waved at the guard at the gate as they drove past the security boom. “You’ve seen the team?”

  “At the aircraft,” Hákon said. “Yes. Three men…”

  “And a woman. Jessie. I’ll introduce you on the flight.”

  Ansel parked close to the runway, then waved at one of the men, tapping his watch and then holding up five fingers.

  “We haven’t got long,” he said, turning back to Hákon. “But I just wanted to answer your question. Basically, what you see…” Ansel gestured at the Gulfstream. “And what you’ve seen, back at the farmhouse, in the lockup – that’s the life. The good and the bad. If you think that’s the life for you, then, without promising anything, I can say you’ve got a good chance of getting involved. If you’re serious.”

  “In joining the Spurring Group.”

  “Working for them,” Ansel said. “You don’t join them. It’s not a force or a department. It’s not Polarpol, Hákon. The Spurring Group is bigger than that. We’re not restricted to working a particular area. Don’t get me wrong, the concept of a Polar Police force sounds great, but you’re stuck in the north. Where’s the fun in that? It’s limiting too. I mean, look at you. You’re chasing Cantrell in your own time, on leave. Your jurisdiction stops at the Arctic Circle, give or take a few hundred kilometres. But you went the extra mile, so to speak. And, I have to say, we like that. It shows you’re hungry, determined, willing to bend the rules, maybe even break a few. Like I said, without making any promises, I think you’d be a good fit, Constable, even with a gammy leg.”

  Ansel opened the driver’s door and got out of the van. Hákon joined him, pulling his stick out of the footwell, and carrying it to the aircraft. Ansel raised his voice as the pilot started the engines.

  “Have a think about it on the flight. But keep your thoughts to yourself. In fact, from here on in, just don’t mention Spurring Group. Not to anyone on board, and definitely not to the Swedes.” Ansel laughed. “They tend to get a little antsy when we get involved. But it’s their own bloody fault. They had a leak they couldn’t fix. So,” he said, stopping at the ladder, “they called in the plumbers.”

  Hákon forced himself to laugh along with Ansel, then climbed the ladder into the aircraft, nodding at the other members of the team, before settling into a seat at the back. Talk of any kind, it seemed, was discouraged, and beyond catching a few names as Ansel made a few cursory introductions, Hákon was left with little to do other than think.

  The pilot announced that he was cleared for take-off and suggested everyone buckle their seat belts. Hákon reached for his, tightening it around his waist as he watched Ansel recline his chair and tug a sleeping mask over his eyes. The rest of the team did the same, leaving Hákon to his thoughts, and plenty to think about.

  Chapter 21

  SOUTH OF ENGLAND

  “We’re almost at the ferry.” Marion’s voice drifted into the back of van, muffling its way into the box, and forcing Byrne to concentrate. “I’m going to pull over. You’re going to give me my money, and then I’m gone. Understand?”

  “Okay,” Byrne said. He decided not to query the part about her taking him all the way across the channel. Of course, the danger was she would take her money, and then call the authorities while he was still in the UK. But Bess trusts her, he thought, followed by, can I trust Bess?

  Byrne braced himself for the mental slap that came out of the dark.

  Idiot.

  “Edie,” he whispered, as Marion pulled in to the side of the road. “We’re going to have to talk about this.”

  Byrne put the voice in his head down to fatigue – too many days, weeks, on the road, on the run. When Marion stopped the van and opened the lid of the box, Byrne realised it was the longest time he had spent in one place for as long as he could remember. She slid the lid down half way and Byrne sat on it.

  At least, that’s what it feels like, he thought, as he blinked in the glare of the interior light.

  “My money,” Marion said, holding out her hand.

  “Wait a second.” Byrne reached into the box, fumbling around the sides until he found a stack of envelopes. He pulled them into the light, drawing Marion’s eyes towards them as he shuffled them in his hands. “This one’s yours,” he said, handing it to her.

  “What if I wanted one of the others, too?” she said.

  “That would be greedy.”

  “Greedy?” Marion spat onto the floor of the van. “Look at all that money.”

  Byrne tossed the two remaining envelopes back into the box. He turned to look at Marion, then nodded at the box. “You want the money?”

  She looked at him, glanced at the envelopes, and the back at Byrne.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Take the money.”

  “It’s a trick.”

  Byrne shrugged. “You’re the one in control here. You’ve got the keys to the van.” Byrne laughed as Marion flicked her head to the driver’s seat. “Oops,” he said, as he thrust out his arm. Byrne gripped Marion by the neck, lifting her onto her toes as he rose from the box. “You’re new to this,” he said. “So I’ll go easy on you. But if you’re going to force a man’s hand – or anyone’s, for that matter – you need to be sure you have the advantage. Now, next time you have a guy trapped in a box in the back of your van, you get him to hand the money out before you open the lid. Okay,” he said, biting back a yawn. “I know how that sounds. You let him open the lid a crack, just big enough for the envelope, and then you slap that lid down real fast.” Byrne slapped Marion’s cheek with his right hand. “You slap it hard, like this.” Another slap. “And then you tell him – use these words, Marion – you tell him, or her, that you’re calling the shots. Understand?”

  Byrne squeezed Marion’s throat, forcing her to nod.

  “What’s that?”

  “I understand,” she said, spluttering over his wrist.

  “Good.” Byrne relaxed his hand a little, just enough to let her take a breath. “Where are we?”

  “A couple of miles outside Harwich.”

  “Okay, that’s good, Ma
rion. You’re getting the hang of this. Now, the next thing you would want to do is check if the guy had a phone. So, let’s pretend you’re that guy. Do you have a mobile, Marion? You do?” Byrne said, as Marion tried to nod. “Which pocket?”

  Marion fumbled her right hand into her jeans and pulled out her mobile.

  “Toss it into the box.” Byrne waited, kicking the mobile to one side as it bounced off the side of the box and onto the ribbed floor of the van. “We’re almost done, Marion. You can relax.”

  “Can’t,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re choking me.”

  “You’re right, I am. And I’m going to keep my hand here, until I open the door. Nod if you understand.”

  Marion nodded, drawing another ragged breath as Byrne relaxed his grip just a little more. He pushed Marion against the interior panel, just to the right of the door, holding her there as he considered the potential fallout of letting her go, compared to the risk of a customs official finding her body in the box during a random check of the van.

  “Last thing,” he said, making a decision. “And this is the most important question. I want you to think very carefully about your answer. Okay?”

  Marion jerked her head back, lifting her chin. Her eyes remained fixed on Byrne.

  “What’s the name of my friend?”

  “What?”

  “The young woman who hired you to take me to the ferry. What’s her name?”

  “I think it’s Bess.”

  “You think?” Byrne tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes as he looked at Marion. “Try again. This is important.”

  “It’s Bess.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” Marion nodded.

  “Fuck,” Byrne said, with a sigh. “That is the right answer.”

  It took little more that a sudden pinch to close her airway, then Byrne twisted Marion away from the side of the van, wrapping his free hand around her head, pressing his knee into the small of her back. Byrne wrenched Marion’s head to one side, breaking her neck, as he shoved his knee hard into her spine. He lowered her body over the lid of the box. Byrne stacked the three envelopes of cash to one side, emptied Marion’s pockets of litter and identification, then slid her legs inside the box.

  “I was right,” he said. “It is a coffin.”

  Byrne folded Marion’s arms across her chest, then bumped her upper body deeper into the box until he could close the lid. He turned off the interior light, slid the door open, and took a quick look outside. The winter dark of the late afternoon filled the woods of the lay-by with shadows. Byrne ducked back inside the van, avoiding the lights of the oncoming traffic, then slid the box to the door. He pushed it half out of the van, then jumped down onto the road to pull the box the rest of the way. Even if someone found Marion within the hour, it would be another three hours or more before the scene was processed by the police, by which time Byrne would be halfway across the channel. He reached inside the van, slid the envelopes into his pocket, then closed the van door on his way to the driver’s seat. Byrne pulled out of the lay-by during a brief lull in traffic, continuing on to the docks, and ditching the van in a parking lot to board the ferry on foot. He found one of his backup passports in the envelope labelled important.

  “Sorry, Bess,” he whispered, as he stood at the railings less than an hour after leaving the lay-by.

  The wind and spray forced Byrne back inside. He bought a coffee, a paper, and found a seat. He used the paper as a shield, checking the contents of each envelope, smiling at Bess’ handwritten notes on post-its dividing the wads of cash.

  Don’t spend it all at once, punctuated with a smiley, was written on one of them. While another reminded him to do whatever you have to do, I won’t judge and I won’t ask, but make sure you come back for me.

  “Count on it,” he said.

  Byrne stuffed the envelopes inside his jacket, and then settled down to read the paper.

  Byrne took an Uber to the Dutch border, hired a car to drive through Germany, then took a train across Denmark to Sweden. He saw the sun in Malmö, yawned his way into a private garage, and enquired about a car.

  “I’ll pay cash,” he said, when the owner hesitated. “Listen, I just need a ride. If you’re worried about papers, you can report it stolen. Just give me twenty-four hours.”

  “Just one day?”

  “That’s all I need,” Byrne said.

  “Okay,” the man said. “You can take the Jeep.” He pointed. “It’s the…”

  “Rusty one?” Byrne laughed. “Yeah, I see it.” Byrne slapped an envelope into the man’s hand, apologised that it was in Euros, and then held out his hand for the keys.

  He pulled out of the garage five minutes later, heading north.

  Byrne stopped for petrol at the first service station before the motorway. He checked he could pay with Euros, then filled the tank, exchanging looks with a couple of teenage hitchhikers, boyfriend and girlfriend, holding cardboard signs by the road. Byrne waved them over.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the girl said.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Jokkmokk.”

  “That’s north of here?”

  The girl giggled. “Yes, it’s far north.”

  “As far as Gällivare?”

  “Not so much,” the boy said. “But the same direction.”

  “Okay,” Byrne said, as he finished tanking the Jeep. “Tell you what. If you drive me to Gällivare, I’ll pay you a thousand Euros, and you get to keep the Jeep.”

  “Why? Is it stolen?”

  Byrne looked at the girl, deciding she was the smartest of the two.

  “Not yet,” he said. Byrne waited as the couple swapped a few words in Swedish. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes,” the boy said. “We can take you to Gällivare.”

  “No stops. Just for fuel. Okay?”

  “Sure,” the girl said.

  Byrne nodded and threw her the keys.

  “I’m going to sleep in the back,” he said. “Stick to the speed limits and wake me when we get there.”

  “Okay,” she said, as her boyfriend stuffed their backpacks in the rear. “I’m Gerda, and this is Emil…”

  “I don’t need to know,” Byrne said, and then, with a sigh, “It’s nice to meet you.” He shook their hands, then climbed into the back, stretching out on the back seat as Gerda climbed behind the wheel. The Jeep’s exhaust coughed once as Gerda took the first leg of the drive to Gällivare.

  “Mister.” Gerda reached between the seats to shake Byrne’s arm. “Mister. Wake up.”

  Byrne opened his eyes. He yawned, felt his jaw ache, and then pressed his palms to his cheeks. “Shit, it’s cold.”

  “Yes,” Gerda said. “Minus twenty-two. But we’re here, in Gällivare.”

  “Okay.” Byrne sat up, wiped his face with his hand, and then reached for the envelope in his pocket. “Here’s a thousand,” he said. “You can drop me off at a hotel.”

  “This is the hotel.” Emil pointed out of the window. “The best in town.”

  “Scandic?”

  “Yes.” Gerda’s eyes widened as Byrne handed her the money.

  “Then we’re done.”

  Byrne pointed at the door and Emil opened it, stepping onto the street to let Byrne out of the back. He held out his hand, shaking Byrne’s hand in a clumsy farewell, before jumping back into the passenger side of the Jeep. Gerda waved once, and then pulled away.

  Byrne took a moment to orientate himself, zipping his jacket and thrusting his hands into his pockets. His breath misted in front of his face, blistering the collar of his jacket in a sheen of frost. He turned as a tall man stepped out of the front door of the hotel, watched him as he walked through the snow towards Byrne.

  “Friends of yours?” the man asked in English, nodding at the Jeep waiting for a green light in the street.

  “Hitchhikers,” Byrne
said.

  “You gave them your car?”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Byrne said, as he held out his hand, “I think you’re going to help me, Isak?”

  “Ivarsson,” he said, with a firm grasp of Byrne’s hand. “You look cold, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “I am.” Byrne stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  “Then let us go inside. We can sit by the fire and you can tell me why I should help you.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” Byrne said.

  Chapter 22

  KIRUNA, SWEDEN

  The Gulfstream jet touched down on the runway at Kiruna Airport with a thud, followed by a shimmy, reverse thrust, and the roar of air slamming against the air brakes. Ansel tugged his sleeping mask off his head and turned in his seat, swapping grins with the rest of the team, with a nod to Hákon sitting in the rear. The team stood as soon as the aircraft settled into a slow taxi to the airport. They exchanged barbed observations, chuckling as they sought to outdo each other, the banter turning increasingly explicit until the pilot’s voice cut through the chatter, advising them he was taking them straight to the hangar. Hákon rose from his seat, drawing more glances and a few choice observations about his size, followed by concerns that he wasn’t going to fit in the gear they had packed for the operation.

  “What’s the problem?” Ansel asked, as the woman he called Jessie nodded in Hákon’s direction. “I told you he was tall.”

  “Tall, yes,” she said. “You never mentioned him being a giant.”

  “I said he was about the same height as Bati Koroi.”

  Hákon rested his hand on the top of his walking stick, curious that they would mention the Fijian’s name, but hardly surprised; Clay had chosen Hákon to join his team in Norway for the same reason – they were the same height.

  “I’ll be fine,” Hákon said. “I will make do.”

  “All right,” Ansel said. He pointed at the gear strewn across the seats on both sides of the cabin. “Take your pick, mix and match.” He shrugged. “Make it work, Constable.”