The path was icy and hard. He could see figures up ahead in Norway. The helicopter search lamp lit his track, picking him out. Rake kept running, weaving, as rounds from a heavy machine gun cut up ice around him. A single erratically moving figure in bad weather was a near-impossible target. His concentration stayed on the border line and the threat overhead. A powerful spotlight lit the path from Norway. Then came Russian from a loudspeaker: ‘Halt. Do not come any further. This is Norwegian sovereign territory.’
Rake gave himself an extra burst of energy. He felt friendly arms holding him up, moving him forward, picking him up and dragging him to safety.
FIFTY
Svanvik, Finnmark, Norway
‘One hell of an entry, Major,’ said Harry Lucas, letting go of his arm. At the edge of the ice in a bank of trees, Rake saw ambulances, police cars, a large white truck with antennas and satellite dishes, a mobile communications center. Rake pulled off his glove, unzipped his pocket, brought out the drive, and dropped it in Lucas’ hand.
‘Is Carrie through?’
‘No word yet.’ Lucas began leading Rake to the truck when he recognized one of the men helping him in was Stefan, Nilla’s brother.
‘Nilla?’ Rake asked.
‘Over there.’ Lucas pointed toward an ambulance. ‘She got shot.’
Nilla had saved him, betrayed him, then saved him again by leaving him a weapon. Rake had liked her. He needed to know what was inside her head. He turned toward the ambulance.
‘Ozenna—’ began Lucas.
‘You’ve got the drive, use it. I’m doing this.’
‘Go easy.’ Stefan’s hand was on his arm.
Rake reached the ambulance, his hand ready on the door. There wasn’t time for anger. But he needed clarity.
‘Nilla doesn’t think the way most of us do,’ said Stefan. ‘She compartmentalizes emotions.’
‘Why did she do it? asked Rake.
‘Our parents left debt which we can’t pay off. The banks were threatening to take over our farm. Yumatov paid the debt and made Nilla work for him. He was promising to open the border and make everyone rich.’
‘And you let her?’
‘I didn’t know.’
Rake opened the ambulance door. A paramedic put up his hand to stop him. Stefan spoke in Norwegian, and he beckoned Rake inside. Nilla lay on her back with a drip and oxygen. Rake couldn’t see the wound. Her face was pale with red blotches. Her eyes trembled, sharpened when they saw Rake, then seemed to retreat again. There were two paramedics, both communicating a sad, blunt expression familiar to Rake, who had used it so many times himself: Nilla was dying. He took her hand, which was cold. Nilla opened her eyes and managed to focus.
‘Did I fuck up?’
‘You did great,’ Rake encouraged.
‘Will I make it?’
‘You’ll be fine.’ Rake lightly squeezed her hand.
Nilla managed a smile. Her face distorted in pain.
A phone vibrated from the ledge above the gurney. Rake noticed three there, together with Nilla’s wallet, a set of keys, her pistol, and other stuff. Nilla’s concentration faded. Rake recognized a Russian number and answered it.
‘How is Nilla?’ Yumatov’s voice, speaking in English
‘Your people shot her,’ Rake said calmly.
‘Not my people. Will she make it?’
‘She’s good. Just a flesh wound. Where’s Carrie?’
‘She’s not through. I’m trying to fix it. But she’s OK.’
The line cut. Was Yumatov trying to do a deal, Nilla for Carrie? Nilla was unconscious, her breathing slow but steady. Rake collected her phones from the shelf, stared down the paramedics’ objection, and stepped out again. He showed the phones to Stefan. ‘Yumatov called Nilla,’ he said. ‘I told her she was fine.’
Stefan’s face furrowed with curiosity. Rake replied. ‘I’m going back in to get him.’
Stefan didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m with you. Two sleds, treated birch, eight dogs each. Strong teams.’ Stefan knew exactly what was needed. Rake read him as a man like himself. He didn’t say much but knew what had to be done. Despite Nilla, Lucas and the Norwegians must have trusted him. So did Rake. His plan was to use his torn sweatshirt and the dogs’ sense of smell to get to the bear trap where Nilla had left him and where the gunfights took place. Yumatov might be tracking Nilla’s phone. If he were, it would be like a magnet. Once there, Rake would bring Yumatov to Norway to find out who he was working for and who he was running in the United States. Unlike snowmobiles with their heat and infra-red signatures, dogs could blend into the environment so as to be near invisible.
Stefan prepared the sleds. Rake joined Lucas in the communications truck, which was warm and quiet. Banks of screens lined both walls throwing off a soft pastel light and showing graphs, diagrams, surveillance, and a news feed from the summit that was about to begin on the royal yacht, barely thirty miles to the north. There was a smell of electronic equipment and strong roast coffee. Einar Olsen, the Norwegian Intelligence Service agent who took charge of the reindeer carcass, worked at one of the screens.
He and Lucas looked expectantly at Rake, who shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said softly. He laid Nilla’s phones on a worktop next to Lucas. ‘Yumatov called. He said Carrie’s not through yet and he was trying to fix it.’
‘Whatever that means,’ said Lucas. ‘We had a couple of technical hitches, but we’re now good to go.’ He plugged the drive into the control panel. First to appear was the list of vessel registration numbers. Then the images went haywire, lines of code, white noise, flashes on diagrams, black as software decrypted data.
Semenov had divided his stolen data into three sections. The first began with the images Carrie had sent from Moscow with signatures of NATO’s ships and submarines including some taken from two top-secret acoustic measuring sites in Alaska and Norway. These were facilities where sonar signatures were recorded in near-laboratory conditions, picking out intricate elements that might otherwise be missed, highly classified information stored only on a hard drive. The data had been stolen by gaining entry and, until now, the security breach had gone undetected.
The second section showed the signatures that Russia had fabricated for many NATO vessels. Russia had reached the equivalent of America’s sixth or seventh generation of undersea detection. The Pentagon was barely beyond the fourth. The third section explained exactly why so many had died over this flash drive.
Lucas looked across to the live chart for the current Dynamic Freedom exercise where NATO’s naval hardware was arrayed in the Barents Sea. It showed security around the royal yacht and the whereabouts of Russian submarines whose location had been made public because of the summit.
Tension spread across his face. Lucas injected Semenov’s technology into the chart. The screen went black, then lit again with the location of vessels rippling as pixelation settled. Harry scrutinized the screen, checking each vessel as it now appeared with Semenov’s software.
Only one changed identity, a small diesel-powered Swedish submarine, listed as Halland. A cold shiver ran through Harry. He drew a breath and tapped his finger on the screen image of what had been a Swedish submarine and was now showing as a Russian underwater drone.
‘What is it?’ he asked Olsen.
‘Poseidon UUV,’ answered Olsen cross-checking on a separate database.
‘Which?’
‘Not sure yet.’
The Poseidon was the name given to a family of Russian underwater drones designed to attack warships or cities.
‘Direction?’ Harry opened two phone lines, one to Ciszewski in Washington and one to Stephanie at the summit.
‘South,’ said Olsen, who opened his own line to the Dynamic Freedom command center in Bodø.
‘Speed?’
‘Thirteen knots.’
‘Distance from the Norge?’
‘Four miles.’
‘Time.’
‘Sixteen minutes. I’m through to B
odø.’
Frank Ciszewski came across Lucas’ feed. ‘What’s happening now, Harry?’
‘The Swedish diesel-electric Gotland sub, Halland, four miles out, with false signature. It is a Russian Poseidon UUV.’
‘OK,’ Ciszewski said impatiently. ‘We’ve got a lot coming in. I’ll put you to presidential security.’
Olsen said, ‘Bodø insists the Halland is genuine.’
‘It’s Swedish,’ objected Lucas. ‘Not even NATO.’
‘The Norwegians asked for it as part of the summit security cordon. The Gotland-class is more modern than anything Norway has.’
Frank Ciszewski came back. ‘The information you have is incorrect. The identity of the Halland is confirmed as authentic.’
‘By whom, Frank?’
‘Like I said, step back. You got too close and you’re wrong.’
‘Who’s telling you this, our side or the Russians?’
‘POTUS is arriving. I’m closing this conversation.’
Lucas suppressed his bewilderment and spoke into his other phone. ‘You there, Steph?’
Royal Yacht HNoMY Norge, Kirkenes, Norway
Stephanie listened to Harry’s warning as the captain of the royal yacht Norge led the two Presidents to their seats behind a long antique table where they were to sign agreements. She managed to pass it on to Sergey Grizlov before he took his position directly behind Lagutov. Writing pads, documents, and pens were laid out on the table. A roll of hail smashed loudly on the roof and against the windows. Roaring wind rocked the vessel. ‘The Devil works to stop good men making peace,’ said Lagutov into the microphone, bringing applause from his guests. Merrow slapped his presidential counterpart on the shoulder and laughed. Grizlov spoke into Lagutov’s ear. The Russian President summoned his head of security. Grizlov spoke to them both. Stephanie tried to interpret the conversation, the taut expressions, the rigid body language, the nodding and shaking of heads, the mounting concern on Grizlov’s face, the shrug from the head of security, Lagutov’s fingers toying around the base of his microphone. Grizlov stepped back. Lagutov spoke to Merrow, who gave a thumbs-up signal to his Secret Service agent: everything was good.
‘They’re not buying it,’ Stephanie told Harry.
‘How long is the ceremony?’
‘Thirty, maybe forty-five minutes. The Norwegians, NATO Secretary-General, then the Presidents speak. Lagutov will go on. Then, the mingling.’
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes, Steph. If that. You need to get off that yacht.’
The door was closed and locked. The weather thundered against the vessel. Stephanie was close to a window streaked with storm. She was in a line with ministers, admirals, generals, and air marshals.
‘I can’t, Harry.’
Svanvik, Finnmark, Norway
Rake was at Lucas’ side. ‘What’s the source of Semenov’s data?’
‘This one is the acoustic range at Hergernnes near Bergen, run by Norway, Germany, and the Netherlands.’ Harry flipped through to another image. ‘This is SEAFAC—’
‘Ketchikan, Alaska.’
‘Correct.’
‘There was a breach there. About a year ago. I was called in.’
‘What sort of a breach?’
‘They didn’t tell me. They wanted my input in re-securing the site.’
‘Fourteen minutes out,’ said Olsen.
‘It’ll be less,’ said Rake. ‘The drone is programed to speed up on its final approach.’
He recognized the ringtone of Nilla’s phone. Rake answered.
‘I will tell you this once, Ozenna,’ said Yumatov. ‘This is how it will work. Are you listening?’
‘I am.’
‘We know you have activated the de-cloaking software. We are holding Carrie, Wekstatt, and the boy at the border. The moment you destroy the Poseidon, they will die.’
‘I understand.’
Yumatov ended the call. Rake kept hold of the phone. Sweat covered the palm of his hand. He repeated what Yumatov had said to Lucas, his face darkening into a fury.
‘He confirmed the Poseidon?’ said Lucas.
‘And he didn’t need to. He also said his people didn’t shoot Nilla. Something way outside our radar is going on.’
The door opened and Stefan came in. ‘We’re going back,’ said Rake.
Lucas acknowledged with a tilt of the head. He wouldn’t stand in Rake’s way. Rake gave Stefan his silk sweatshirt stained with blood, the scent trail back to Yumatov. Stefan opened the door and held it steady as wind howled into the truck. Rake stepped into a barrage of swirling snow, far worse than when he came in barely fifteen minutes ago. He pulled up his mask against hail chips stinging his face.
FIFTY-ONE
Skorskog Crossing, Norway–Russia Border
A Tigr armored vehicle was parked across the E-105 at the Russian border with Norway. It was painted in a camouflage of white and pale green. Behind its narrow windshields, Carrie saw two men in the front and on the roof, two unmanned machine guns side by side. Despite brutal weather, Russian soldiers stood a few paces apart lining each side of the road, stretching several hundred yards behind them. Their commanding officer was inside an immigration cabin with Russian border guards. So far, they had been disciplined and professional. They had stopped Carrie as she drove toward the border crossing. A young officer explained they had been called from their camp at Salmiyarvi to check all vehicles at the border. He had peered in at Mikki and Rufus and asked for passports. Carrie had shown the one Yumatov had given her. Mikki flipped open his Norwegian police identity card. The officer gave the documents back. Carrie had nothing to show for Rufus. The officer didn’t ask. They did not search the vehicle. They asked Carrie to turn off the engine and run the heater off the battery, which she did. They had handed her bottles of water and Russian energy bars.
Rufus hungrily devoured one while playing games on a phone Carrie had given him. He stayed in the front seat, strapped into a seat belt, his fairy-tale book on his lap. Mikki had been lying on the back seat. He pushed himself up for the border check.
‘Must be another turf war,’ said Mikki. ‘These guys are to keep us waiting. They don’t know why, maybe until Yumatov gets here.’
Carrie caught his expression in the rear-view mirror. Mikki was in pain. She leaned over and touched his forehead. There was no fever. The tourniquet was holding. She wondered if Rake had made it through.
‘The army is working with the FSB border guards,’ said Mikki. ‘That Humvee-type vehicle is the wild card. It’s under another command. They used it when they tried to take Rake and me before.’
Carrie checked to see how she could get around it without getting killed. The Tigr was parked with its rear end just up from a rest area on the left. A few meters beyond was Norway. In a clear run, she could veer left, sweep through the rest area, and be in Norway in less than thirty seconds. Their vehicle was armored, one gift Nilla had left for her.
‘I can get through,’ she said.
‘Start the engine,’ said Mikki.
Carrie looked back, hesitantly. She meant in an emergency, not when they were sitting protected. ‘Then what?’
‘Someone will come over.’ Mikki eyes were fixed with determination. ‘That monster vehicle will react in some way. I need to see how. If I say “go,” go.’
Carrie fired the ignition. The headlamps dulled by battery power became brighter. Its beams showed whirls of snow skidding across the road and the Tigr’s outline, a dirty lump of a vehicle on the white and green around it. A tree branch snapped and flew out of sight. The door of the immigration building opened. The same officer stepped out, walking quickly toward them, his hands out indicating that Carrie needed to cut the engine. Six men fanned out around the vehicle.
‘Do not lower your window,’ said Mikki. Carrie did what he said. She engaged the gear, keeping her foot on the brake. ‘Kill your lights,’ said Mikki as he brought down his window. The officer shone a flashlight in his face.
Carrie flipped off the headlamps. A soldier climbed up from inside the Tigr to the machine gun.
‘Any news?’ said Mikki to the Russian officer in English, narrowing his eyes against the light.
The soldier replied in Russian. Mikki shrugged, looking bemused. Rufus looked up at Carrie with panic. ‘We have to leave the vehicle and go inside and take Rufus with us,’ translated Carrie. ‘He says these are direct order from the Kremlin.’
More like direct orders from Yumatov, she thought.
‘Sure, we can do that,’ said Mikki, looking straight at the soldier with a smile. ‘I need to take a piss anyway.’
Carrie translated and Rufus piped up in Russian. ‘Me too.’ The soldier stepped back with an expression of relief.
‘Go,’ Mikki said softly, taking her by surprise.
His lock clicked as he began to open his door, putting the soldiers more at ease. She met his gaze in the rear-view mirror to confirm his instruction. Carrie let off the brake and hit the gas. The front wheels spun and twisted on ice that had frozen over while they had been parked. She speeded up, letting the wheels adjust themselves. Mikki slammed his door shut. Glaring searchlights illuminated them from both sides of the road. A siren blared. Gunfire from behind hit the back of the vehicle. Mikki didn’t fire back. His target was the Tigr, which was reversing to exactly the spot where Carrie had planned to break through. A soldier swung his machine gun toward her. If Carrie kept on course, she risked smashing into the Tigr. If she veered away, she could skid and flip the vehicle. Mikki said nothing. He trusted her decisions. Deafening gunfire erupted, as Mikki unleashed high-velocity rounds toward the machine-gunner. Sparks flew off its chassis. Rounds smashed into the steel cladding. Mikki’s intensity of fire was designed to terrify and kill. The gunner slumped over the heavy machine gun, his arm and shoulder ripped away. Carrie knew he was dead. The Tigr entered the rest area. Another five seconds and it would be blocking Carrie’s path. Small-arms fire rapped against her windshield, cracking but not breaking it, not from the Tigr, but regular troops from the Salmiyarvi barracks. Carrie could not stop, could not go back.
Man on Edge Page 27
