Man on Edge

by Humphrey Hawksley

  She realized how often she had been asking herself, almost without thinking, how Rake would handle things. Carrie wasn’t a hunter like Rake. She did fevers and wounds. She needed his take on what was happening now. She messaged. Unsafe. Call. Carrie needed a discussion, not a ten-character message.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Helsinki International Airport, Finland

  All had been on plan until Rake saw Carrie’s message to call her and warning him not to go. Human figures, gloved and hooded, wrapped in oranges and yellows, worked around the airport apron in Helsinki. Snow stretched away like a white sheet and de-icing spray bounced off aircraft wings. Colored lights glowed through the morning darkness to demarcate runways. From Helsinki, Rake and Mikki were less than two hundred miles away from St Petersburg and Carrie’s train would be getting close.

  Carrie liked to talk things through, sit down face to face, if not that then voice to voice, phone, Skype, or something. A couple of minutes. Stuff got missed with short digital messages.

  The boarding announcement came for their St Petersburg flight. Mikki hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. Rake messaged Carrie: U LED? Are you in St Petersburg?

  She sent straight back. No. Do not come

  Where?

  Call FFS For fuck’s sake.

  Rake called Harry Lucas who said: ‘Keep it to less than three minutes.’ The boarding lounge lit like a theater as headlamps from snowplows swept through the huge window. Rake dialed. Carrie picked up straightaway.

  ‘Is it you?’ Her voice was raised against background noise of the train, no name, no recognition risk, no courtesy, no time. To hear Carrie’s voice was good.

  ‘O negative. Yellow. Boccaccio.’

  ‘They’re expecting you. They’ll arrest you. I have help. I have a safe place on the train. I get off at Olenegorsk, before Murmansk, another twenty-four hours. I have a lift to Nikel, close to the Norwegian border. Can you get me across?’ She spoke firmly, in short bursts, like while traveling back to a hospital with a critically ill patient.

  ‘I can,’ said Rake.

  ‘I have a flash drive. I sent you screenshots from it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Hektor T-o-l-s-t-o-y-e,’ she spelled out the name, ‘and his sister Katerina Tolstoye. I need to know if they are real people.’

  ‘On it.’

  He heard the shaking of the train, an intake of Carrie’s breath. He imagined her hand cupped around the mouthpiece to cover her voice. Maybe squeezed between passengers, protected by this Hektor and Katerina Tolstoye. The glare in the airport lounge faded as headlamp beams turned away to join a line of yellow snowplows, like a military convoy, heading far off into the airport. Rake wanted to ask Carrie if she were all right. Stupid. No one on a train in Russia with people wanting to kill them was all right.

  ‘There’s a security breach,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The second in command on the Diomedes. It’s him. Unfinished business.’

  ‘Copy that.’ So, Carrie knew.

  The call ended. Mikki stood at the back of the boarding line. Rake held up his hand to indicate he would be another couple of minutes. He called back Harry Lucas and kept the line open while Lucas sourced Hektor Tolstoye.

  ‘Captain in Russia’s 96th Separate Reconnaissance Brigade,’ said Lucas. ‘He lost his right arm and suffered third-degree burns during an ambush in Homs, Syria, April 20th 2017. Divorced. No children. The family comes from St Petersburg. Father, Oleg, fought in Afghanistan. Has a sister Katerina and a nephew, Rufus, aged nine.’

  ‘Any connection to Yumatov?’

  ‘Not that comes up here. Based out of Moscow, not Eastern District.’

  Rake rang off, walked across to Mikki, and said, ‘We’re not going.’

  Expression unchanged, Mikki unhitched his bag set it on the floor. ‘Where to, then?’

  ‘Kirkenes,’ said Rake. ‘I’ll call Nilla.’

  Leaning back on her stool, Carrie read Rake’s message. Ts check out. She had an urge to hug him, wished she could sort him out in her mind.

  She had last seen Rake a year ago. She was working at a trauma unit in Boston. He called her out of the blue asking if she might have time for coffee. Her first thought was no. What did he want? It was over. He explained he was designing a defense course at the Belfer Center at Harvard University, which stopped her dead.

  ‘What the hell are you at Harvard for, Rake?’

  ‘Army’s show-ponying me,’ he said off-handedly.

  ‘You’re kidding!’ she laughed. Rake, a Harvard academic? She suggested a safe place, daytime, people. She wore a formal dark-blue work suit, her blonde hair twisted into a topknot, a kind of, I like you but keep your distance message, except Rake had never cared what she wore.

  He slid into the seat facing her. Carrie felt a twitch in her abdomen. That creased, weathered face, the eyes gone sad: all that real-life experience. Other guys would spend an evening crowing about how great they were because they were teaching at Harvard. Rake couldn’t wait to get away. He was heading out of town at the weekend, visiting friends at a farm. Would she like to join him? By agreeing, she would be stepping back into a danger zone. She told herself, what the hell, she was thirty-five, in her prime, didn’t know people in Boston apart from doctors with families and partners. And it was a long time since she had had good sex.

  ‘Sure,’ she shrugged, hands protectively around her large warm cup of coffee.

  ‘I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘No,’ she quickly countered. ‘Give me the GPS, in case I get called.’

  Ninety minutes out of Boston, when Carrie turned off the I-291 into an undulating, snow-covered landscape lit by brilliant winter sun, she spotted Rake by the roadside, rugged up in animal skins, warming himself by a fire. She could have been in Alaska.

  ‘You hungry?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought we were with friends on a farm.’

  ‘Over there,’ Rake pointed behind him. He led them up around a mound toward a copse of trees where, out of sight from the road, eight dogs lay resting in the sun. They were harnessed to a wooden sled draped in caribou skins. Carrie put her hand to her mouth, couldn’t help smiling, couldn’t help thinking she should turn back. The dogs’ heads lifted. Two barked, setting off a chorus until Rake let out a high-pitched whistle and they quietened. They were all sizes. Some looked like mutts, shades of fur, brown, black, greys, whites; a random spread of strong winter coats. Rake had talked about huskies and sledding, but she had never seen him with dogs. He explained that these dogs were veterans of the great cross-country Alaskan sled rally called the Iditarod and he was settling them into a new home.

  ‘Why here? Why not in Alaska?’ she asked.

  ‘Kids come with them from the Diomedes, Wales, Teller, and places, gets them way out into the world. They learn sledding, tour guiding, hospitality, and they get Indian Health Service so medical is covered.’ He introduced her to each dog, giving the name and a character trait, cuffing his fingers under the throat, checking the harness wasn’t too tight or loose. ‘Meet Pepper. He’s a little crazy. And Kani. She’s strong, really solid in the long haul, I’m using her as the lead, and Jake, he’s more timid, a follower, really good as team dog, and matching him with Carly, who’s more happy-go-lucky.’

  They went back to the roadside fire. Rake laid a caribou skin on the snow for them to sit on. He hadn’t touched her, she realized. He cooked them salmon and steak. He had brought strong paper plates and knives and forks. He asked if she wanted to go for a ride. The dogs yelped, strained at their harnesses, which lifted from the ground and tightened. The sled jolted forward, swaying as Rake coaxed the dogs into a pattern, then settled onto a trail through woods and snow. Carrie sat, legs up, hands steadying her over the bumps with the sun on her face. Some way along, Rake insisted Carrie drive. He showed her the slow and hard foot brakes and how to shift weight like in a sailboat for the curves of the trail. She was a skier, not a sailor. She was clumsy. T
he sled tipped, spilling them into deep snow. Rake took over, and they ended up outside a large log cabin with kennels and outbuildings, snow covering the roofs and drifting up against the walls.

  ‘An offshoot to the farmhouse,’ said Rake. ‘It’s a couple of miles across there. We can hang out here or we can keep going.’

  There was no electricity. Water came from a well, heating from chopped logs loaded steadily into the stove. Light came through small square windows, growing dimmer as Carrie, dry and warm, watched the changing light of the vanishing sun. Rake lit candles. As she stood, surprised and marveling, he touched her shoulder and turned her toward him. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. They slept under thick goose down, warming each other, then naturally, their bodies seeking the familiar pleasure points, holding each other hard. She knew him well. Rake knew who he was. He knew what he wanted. It was her. The cold, the animals, the skins, the smell of fire and the quiet; she could hardly believe the memory. She hadn’t met anyone like him, hadn’t moved on because she hadn’t stopped measuring other men against him. She had forgotten how much a person needed someone they could trust to keep going.

  Hektor and Rufus came in with a bowl of steaming borsch soup and a chunk of bread. Hektor explained what she should do once she got to Olenegorsk. His cousin Mikhail would meet her. He was driving a green Skoda sedan. Carrie should keep her head covered with the dark red scarf he gave her and use the Katerina Tolstoye identity if she were asked.

  The train slowed, and the soldier, playing with his phone, looked up, alert and tense. He slipped his phone into his jacket pocket and pulled across the zipper to seal it in.

  ‘St Petersburg,’ said Carrie.

  He ignored her. With the change of rhythm, a horse became skittish, setting off others, a chorus of restless whinnying, hooves thumping on the floor. The train crawled forward, jolted, and stopped. The soldier peered through the narrow glass window. He unholstered his weapon, checked the chamber, slid it back in, leaving the flap unclipped. He spoke to the horses, calming them, feeding sugar cubes from his pockets, stroking their manes, necks, and heads. He glanced at Carrie. He put his finger to his lip. Stay quiet. Don’t speak.

  From the platform came raised voices, orders being shouted. The soldier watched. He showed no aggression, no apprehension, a soldier doing his job. There was a thump on the side of the carriage. There would be people out there waiting for her. Carrie sat rigidly on the stool, muscles clenched, thankful for the hot food, her mind alert. She hated having no control. Doors opened and slammed shut. Other carriages. Not Carrie’s. She concentrated on her watch, tracked the rotation of the long, thin second hand. This wasn’t one of the high-speed trains. St Petersburg was a stop, not a destination. The wait would be minutes. Not long. Five. Maybe ten. Not more.

  The railcar lurched forward and stopped. A hoof smashed against steel. There was another jolt. The train moved ahead again. A whistle shrilled, merging back into the rhythm of the train regaining pace. The soldier pitchforked hay into the containers, poured himself hot tea from his flask, sat back down, and brought out his phone.

  The silent soldier had not betrayed her. She pulled fresh hay from a bale. She arranged it as a mattress on the juddering floor. Warmed by the soup, she lay down. This time tomorrow, she should be in Norway.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Washington, DC

  Harry Lucas’ surveillance alerted him that the CIA Director’s vehicle was looping around Logan Circle and heading along Church Street to his apartment block. An hour earlier, Frank Ciszewski had called, saying he was being summoned to the White House. Ciszewski needed to drop by Harry’s place after. It couldn’t be done on the phone. Harry’s automatic plate recognition flagged up that Ciszewski was riding in his official Cadillac XT5 Crossover with two escort vehicles. Harry Lucas and Frank Ciszewski had agreed to keep the Carrie Walker operation off the books. So why was Ciszewski now advertising his own involvement?

  Harry put on a playlist from Ciszewski’s generation, music from Queen, the Rolling Stones, the Doors, and bands that straddled his Yale college years and joining the CIA. He opened the door just as one of Ciszewski’s security detail was about to press the buzzer.

  ‘I’ll take it from here,’ Ciszewski told his men. ‘It’s Harry Lucas. I’ll be fine. Place is like Fort fucking Knox.’ Harry held open the door, Ciszewski walked in, loosening his white silk scarf, unbuttoning his black cashmere overcoat. ‘You got one hell of a bachelor pad here, Harry. Gives me a view of a freedom I’ve never had.’

  ‘Grass is always greener, Frank.’ Harry hung the coat on a stand near the door and pointed to the coffee machine. Ciszewski shook his head. His cheeks were red from the cold. He sat heavily on one of Harry’s black-leather easy chairs, resting his thick hands on his stomach. His brogue shoes shone with melted snow.

  ‘I’m sorry about your guys, Harry. Dreadful stuff,’ said Ciszewski. ‘Sorry about Semenov, too. That’s a mess that will be dissected for decades to come.’ He pulled out a handkerchief, freshly laundered and ironed, and ran it over his bald, moonlike head, then down his face. ‘You go first, then I’ll tell you about Merrow.’

  Harry perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘Semenov carried two drives. One we were meant to see and one we were not. He was killed for the latter, which we hope Carrie Walker has. She should be in St Petersburg around now. We’re meeting her there and getting her out.’

  ‘Do you know what’s on them?’

  ‘Carrie managed to send us two screenshots from the one we were not meant to see. They showed the registration numbers of NATO naval vessels.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Ciszewski looked at Harry curiously.

  ‘That’s it. Open-source material. But there’s got to be more.’

  ‘The other one?’

  ‘Nothing new. Foreign Minister Grizlov gave the file to Ambassador Lucas. It mainly contained material about air-independent propulsion and submersible drones. According to Grizlov, it is a goodwill gesture, the beginning of a partnership, a plea for us to back off on the Dynamic Freedom exercise and help stem the rise of nationalism in Russia.’

  Ciszewski folded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. ‘How are you getting Walker out?’

  ‘I’m using Rake Ozenna.’

  ‘Jesus, Harry.’ Ciszewski raised his eyebrows. ‘The Russians just tried to kill him.’

  ‘My network has a security breach. It might be wider, Frank, and I’ve no idea who or what it is. Carrie doesn’t trust us. She trusts Ozenna.’

  Ciszewski looked at Harry as if to say he didn’t like it, but he understood. ‘This is the Doors you’re playing. Coppola used them in Apocalypse Now. Great film about another mess we created. Can’t let our generation slip into the same abyss, Harry. That’s what Merrow just told me. Went on and on about Vietnam and Iraq. Learning from mistakes.’ He pushed himself to his feet, stepped to the window, which had a clear view to the street but was frosted on the outside so people could not see in. ‘You got a map? North Atlantic. Something we can lay on the coffee table and touch without it lighting up and speaking to us.’

  Harry brought down an Arctic and North Atlantic map from an upper shelf and unfurled it on the large, low coffee table. Ciszewski drew out a pen. ‘Can I write on it?’

  ‘Go ahead. It’s stolen government property.’

  Ciszewski drew a line down from the southern coast of Greenland, through Iceland to northern Scotland, the GIUK gap, which marked the outer boundary of Russia’s Bastion of Defense. He drew a curve that sealed off the eastern area of the map, closer to Russia, the Bastion’s inner sanctum, which Moscow insisted was its area of control. He tapped the pen inside that arc. ‘Russia’s inner Bastion of Defense takes in the northern Norwegian coast and Dynamic Freedom is going right in there, not just with subs but overtly, with aircraft and surface ships, a show of force like we have never done before. We can’t allow Russia to control that area and Russia can’t allow us to control it. President Lagutov has been on the ph
one to Merrow, who’s called in the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who’s asking the NATO Secretary-General. Everyone’s flinging around slogans like “Peace through Strength,” “America First,” “Russia First,” “New World Order,” “Motherland,” “Neo-colonialism,” all that crap. And no one knows what the fuck they’re talking about because the Russians have outsmarted us and Merrow’s taken the bait.’

  ‘You mean we’re rowing back Dynamic Freedom?’

  ‘Worse. Lagutov wants a summit with Merrow in theater during Dynamic Freedom to show the US–Russian friendship. I knocked it back. The Secret Service knocked it back. The Joint Chiefs. Madness. We suggested Vice-President Bennett, Secretary of State Diamond, which the Secret Service thought they could handle. Merrow was adamant. It had to be him and Lagutov. Russians are our natural allies and all that, rebalancing world power for the greater good.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Worse still and a damn unfunny joke. The Norwegians are bringing their royal yacht out of winter mothballs.’ Ciszewski leaned over the map. ‘Docking it in Kirkenes, a tiny one-horse town, but marked to become a big new port for the northern sea routes and melting ice and turns out, historically, that it’s the sister city of Severomorsk, the Russian North Atlantic naval base.’

  Ciszewski sat back and folded his arms. ‘Merrow asked if there were any ongoing ops that could bite him in the butt. The wheels are moving fast, Harry. You need to bring Carrie Walker in before we pass the point of no return.’

  When Ciszewski left, Harry tried to call Ozenna. As the line rang, a map came up that was meant to highlight Ozenna’s location. It didn’t. Harry went close on St Petersburg and Helsinki. There was nothing. He checked Finnair Flight 107 that Ozenna and Wekstatt were booked on. It had landed in St Petersburg. They did not board. He tried Wekstatt’s phone. It rang through to a factory settings voicemail.