Long Shot

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

The elders, in real life, were the hierarchy of the U.S. Embassy staff in Helsinki, and an hour after Swanson spoke with Strakov they were gathered in a conference room. At the head of the oval table was Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary Mary Line, who had compiled an illustrious career as an academic and an athlete, and had even flown in space before becoming a political appointee. Her husband was chairman of a giant computer company and they were generous donors to the political party of the incumbent president. The previous year, she had ridden her bicycle some eight hundred miles around Finland.

  “I don’t like this one little bit,” Mary Line said forcefully. “Sending a secret agent on a mission only on the word of a Russian spy will certainly antagonize Moscow!”

  On her right was Jack Loran, the quiet career State Department Foreign Service officer who was deputy chief of mission, which made him the power behind the throne in times of crisis. He was the manager and the ambassador was the figurehead. “It is unusual,” he agreed.

  Bob Carver, chief of the Diplomatic Security Service, was at the other end and feeling an ulcer bubbling in his belly. “Our first priority is to relocate Colonel Strakov before the Finns uncover what is going on. We have air transport available tonight, but need to decide where to send him. I vote for Washington.”

  “He wants Brussels.” The ambassador reminded everyone.

  “Screw what he wants, ma’am,” Carver shot back when she gave him a stare. “Sorry.”

  Jack Loran looked over to CIA Station Chief Sandra Bentley, who said, “The people back in Langley have already made that decision, Madam Ambassador. The plane will leave for Paris tonight. Further arrangements will be made from there.”

  Kyle Swanson liked the response. Sandi Bentley had been around the CIA for years and had earned her stripes in the field; she had run the stations in both Spain and New Zealand before coming to Helsinki. She guarded secrets carefully. She was courteous, but the ambassador did not need to know where Ivan was headed after he left Finland. Nor did she need to know where Kyle was going. He had nothing to add on that subject.

  “And Agent Swanson will be leaving as soon as possible, too?” Ambassador Line was unhappy about all of these outsiders coming in and disturbing her orderly domain.

  “Yes. He leaves tomorrow, too.” Bentley hardly looked up from her papers. The ambassador thought Swanson would fly straight back to Washington. The CIA station chief did not correct that erroneous conclusion.

  “What do you recommend on the Russian’s request for Swanson to visit Narva, Sandi?” asked Loran.

  “We’ll take care of that, too,” she replied. “You and the ambassador will have to officially log what has happened here, minute-by-minute, in case there is some future congressional investigation, Jack. Therefore, the State Department’s diplomatic involvement ends here, with the handover of the defector, and the CIA is putting a top-secret lid on all of it. Is that OK by you folks?”

  “But…” the ambassador started to speak. She wanted to know more, but she looked over to her deputy chief of mission. Jack Loran gave a negative headshake and closed his folder. “That’s good.”

  Swanson liked the decision. The CIA lied to the ambassador without actually doing so, and officially cut the State Department out of the loop.

  * * *

  THE TEMPERATURE ROCKETED DOWN and the beautiful weather of Tuesday collapsed into a leftover winter day on Wednesday. The frozen air out of the north, a dump of overnight snow and the following gloomy gray sky beyond the hotel window matched Swanson’s mood even before he was intercepted in the lobby by Inspector Aura and Sergeant Kiuru from the Finland Security Intelligence Service. She was tapping his American passport on a forearm, burning restless energy, waiting for him.

  “You were supposed to leave this morning, Mister Swanson. Surely you remember that?” She snapped the question.

  “I am leaving, Inspector, even as we speak. If you step aside I will check out and be on my way.” He squared off to face her, tired of the pushiness.

  “You did not make an airplane reservation.”

  “That’s because I am not flying anywhere. If you would be so kind as to let me have my passport now, I will do the paperwork at the front desk and depart your lovely country. The ferry over to Estonia leaves in about an hour and I don’t have any more time to waste with you, as much as you enjoy jerking around a legitimate businessman.”

  The eyes narrowed. “Why are you going to Estonia?”

  “Because you are throwing me out of Finland.”

  “No.” She held the passport like a lifeline and glared. “What is the reason?”

  Swanson offered his palm for it. “I had a sudden urge to visit the old family farm and some distant relatives, and maybe do some business that I had considered doing in Finland. Estonia is a forward-leaning country. That’s where Skype was invented, you know, and Excalibur Enterprises is heavy into technology.”

  She puffed out her lips in exasperation. “Do you even speak Estonian, Mister Swanson?”

  “Of course. It is a beautiful tongue.”

  “You are such a terrible liar.”

  “And you are boring me. Arrest me or give me my passport and get out of my way. Good-bye, Inspector Aura.”

  * * *

  DSS SPECIAL AGENT LEM James was waiting behind the wheel of his personal car, the motor running to keep the heater going. Kyle climbed into the front while a bellman packed his luggage into the trunk. “Did you have another pleasant meeting in there with my pal Rikka?”

  “You didn’t tell her about my taking the ferry over to Tallinn, did you?”

  James laughed so hard that his body quaked. “No, of course not. Make her work a little bit, you know?”

  “She is arrogant and stubborn.”

  “She says the same about you.” James handed Kyle his boat tickets and other paperwork, slipped the car into gear, and they drove away along the freshly plowed streets to Tyynenmerenkatu 8, the sprawling West Terminal used by the boats of the Tallink & Silja Line. Swanson noticed that although it was freezing outside, the Finns were going about their business pretty much as they had done the previous day in the sunshine. They knew how to live with weather.

  “You take care of yourself over there, Swanson. One of your people, a trade attaché at the American embassy, will meet you on the other side.”

  “Couldn’t I just rent a car and drive to this castle?”

  “Trust me, pal. You need a guide in this strange territory. You don’t speak Estonian, do you?”

  “Not a word.”

  “It sounds a lot like gargling mouthwash while yodeling. Your best bet is to remember this one phrase: ma ei räägi eesti keelt—it means ‘I don’t speak Estonian.’”

  “Oh, boy.” Kyle muttered the strange words. Not a chance that he could remember that.

  “Yeah,” said James. He scribbled a private telephone number on a business card and gave it to Kyle. “Good luck. I’m off this case officially as of yesterday, so I’m just acting as a friend. Call me if I can help. Otherwise, I’ll see you when I see you.”

  6

  THE BIG WHITE FERRY trimmed in lime green stripes rode ten decks tall and loaded more than two thousand passengers for the two-hour journey out of Helsinki, across the Baltic Sea to Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. Unmelted blocks of ice still bobbed in the cold water. A helicopter would have been much quicker, but the chopper service did not awaken from its winter season until May, more than three weeks away. Swanson went up to the plush business lounge on the sixth deck, and from the windows, looked down at the terminal and saw Lem James standing beside Inspector Aura and her sergeant, all of them waiting for the boat to shove off and take Kyle away from Finland.

  He opened his laptop PC and logged in, surfing the Net for nothing in particular. He e-mailed Janna Ecklund back in Washington to say he was taking a ferry to Estonia and would be available by e-mail or cell phone. Messaged that he would be back in the States in a few days, anything to keep the surfi
ng going and the Wi-Fi connection alive. There was no doubt that he was being electronically tracked, so he wanted to make it easy for the snoopers to confirm his exact position. The boat finished filling with passengers, cargo and vehicles, the powerful engines began to turn and the crew tossed the ropes. It headed away from the pier right on time. Kyle put on his heavy black wool coat and went outside on the rear deck to give Inspector Aura one last confirmation sighting. It was very cold, and he pulled up his collar. He saw Lem James and waved. The agent pointed and the inspector took a picture. He stayed out there until the vessel was on open water and the cold wind increased in velocity.

  Back inside, he drank hot chocolate for warmth, shut down the laptop and read a few newspapers to help the minutes pass. The vibration of the ship was felt in his bones. He watched for faces, for followers, but spotted no one on his tail. As everybody involved now knew, and the GPS coordinates confirmed, Kyle Swanson was exactly where he was supposed to be, right on schedule, and responsible people were waiting at the other end of the short voyage to put a new leash on his collar. They would be comforted by that certainty. Excellent, Swanson thought. It was time to change the rules.

  There were one hundred eighty-five private cabins on the ship, and he had a ticket for one of the ninety-two rooms that had views of the water from large, curtained portholes. He hurried up one flight to Deck Seven. The room was large, by ferry standards, had a private shower and could handle up to four people with ease, or one rich American like himself. The luggage was lined neatly in one corner. He opened a medium bag that contained neat partitions for pairs of shoes, and one space for the bag of used underwear. He removed the footwear and the dirty clothes, disarmed the security device and popped the false bottom.

  Everything he needed was in there, including cellophane-wrapped bricks of $10,000 in U.S. currency. He took one, closed the case, set the alarm and returned to the business lounge. A foreign money exchange sign showed that one American dollar was worth about one and one-quarter European Euros, so he exchanged $5,000 for €3,996 plus change, minus a small transaction fee. The clerk at the banking facility in the elite Business Class section did not bat an eye at the amount. On the way back to his cabin, Kyle made another trip outside and, once on the frigid deck, he pulled the memory card from his cell phone and dropped both devices overboard. They splashed into the ferry’s turbulent wake and sank.

  Back inside, Swanson descended all the way down to the bottom, where hundreds of vehicles were solidly chained into long rows, orderly and tight, bumper to bumper, side by side. The vehicles rocked on their springs in rhythm with the waves pounding the steel hull. Passengers were not allowed on this deck during the voyage, but from a catwalk above, Kyle examined the space, uninterested in the colorful lines of over-the-road trucks, sedans and sports utility vehicles. On the port side near the bow, a section was given over to about a half-dozen motorcycles, packed in tightly and also secured. From there, as soon as the ramp was lowered, the bikes would be allowed to buzz off first to get them out of the way of the larger traffic. He gave his silent approval. He could do business there.

  Back in his cabin, he called for the steward, who was an English-speaking youngster named Matias, wearing a uniform tunic with the ship’s logo. A deal was made for when the boat docked in Estonia. The kid was to personally load the luggage into a taxi and deliver it to the Radisson Blu Sky Hotel and leave it with the concierge there, on hold for the arrival of Kyle Swanson of Excalibur Enterprises, who had a reservation. A bonus if Matias could track down the owner of the sleek black BMW R nineT motorcycle that was presently tied down on the vehicle deck. The boy agreed.

  Kyle shucked out of his business suit and put it on a hangar in the folding bag. He would dress for a ride in cold weather, and no cotton garments would be able to wick away the sweat. The resulting sheen of moisture on the skin would pull away body warmth. He had to layer up. First came the soft, synthetic boxers and T-shirt and socks, and over that he slid a set of long thermal underwear. He finished with old jeans and a black T-shirt, and a pair of good boots. That was not nearly good enough for a long ride on a cold road, but it formed a good building block.

  Digging in the hidden stash again, Swanson removed a set of fake hair additions and, using a bit of spirit gum as adhesive, affixed a thick brown mustache above his lip, smoothing it straight with his fingertips. His hair would not require a wig. Unfolding a backpack, he put in most of the cash, a notepad and pens, several fake press passes that showed he was Canadian journalist Simon Brown and a Visa card. Neatly arranged at the bottom of the case was a blanket, a rain suit, the monocular and a pencil-thin flashlight. Finally, he shook out a loose gray hoodie that covered a clip holster containing a Beretta Px4 Storm Compact handgun along with a spare clip of 9mm ammo. He closed up the suitcases again, leaving the laptop inside one of them.

  Kyle breathed easier. In a few minutes, he would be off the grid.

  * * *

  BIKERS HANG TOGETHER LIKE leathery birds on a wire. No matter what type of machine they ride, they speak in the code of the road about how it is to ride through a world that is unknown to normal motorists; a magical path of wind in the hair and bugs on the teeth and death just a patch of loose gravel away. Matias, the steward, had furnished a name for the BMW owner and Swanson prowled the lounges until he found a group dressed mostly in black leather, with a scattering of helmets on the tables.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for Andre Parl,” he said. The conversation stopped as the riders gave him a once-over. With the boots, jeans and hoodie, he was deemed acceptable.

  “Why do you want Andre?” asked a man whose belly pushed at his belt. He had a thick, unkempt beard.

  “I want to talk about his bike,” Swanson replied, and took a seat in their circle without waiting for an invitation.

  “What? That Beemer? It’s an expensive pile of junk.”

  “Hey. My bike is just fine. I can run that candy-ass Harley of yours into a ditch.” He looked at Kyle. “I’m Andre Parl, and my R-ninety is not for sale.”

  Swanson looked him over. Black leather bib overalls were unhooked at the chest and folded down, and unzipped at the ankles to show thick socks and long underwear. The jacket hung over the back of his chair and the scratched helmet was underneath. His fingernails were crescents of dirt and grease.

  “Let’s talk in private,” Swanson replied, motioning to a corner table. They made the move.

  “My motorcycle is not for sale,” Parl said again. “I bought it new, and it cost me more than fourteen thousand dollars U.S. I’m still paying it off! I maintain it myself and I know every screw in it. It is my baby.”

  “How much?” Swanson had an easy smile, because he knew that everything had a price and for him, today, money was no object. The maintenance comment by the owner meant the kid knew his machine, and the bike was probably as good as it looked.

  “Why do you want my bike? Why not get that fancy-pants Gold Wing? Old man like you needs comfort.” His English had a strong accent that Kyle pegged as being some sort of Scandinavian.

  “Ten thousand cash, right now.”

  The young wrench-banger scoffed. “You are not even in the right range, Mister. Who are you, anyway?”

  “My name is Kyle Swanson and I am a businessman with a very generous expense account. I need those wheels because I may need to take it off road. The Gold Wing can’t do that. How much?”

  Andre Parl cocked his head to one side. The man was serious, but the bike was valuable. “Twenty thousand dollars,” he said.

  Swanson did not even wince. Instead, he countered with an offer to lease it. “Thirty-five hundred for three days, and you throw in your leathers and helmet.”

  When Parl hesitated, Kyle added, “Plus, you get your bike back in three days and keep the money.”

  “You want to rent my bike for a thousand a day?”

  “Yes, and with a written agreement that gives me legal possession in case I’m stopped. Three days from now, yo
u will find it parked in the Radisson Blu Sky Hotel garage here in Tallinn, and the key will be waiting in your name at the front desk. If not, my company will pay your twenty-thousand asking price.” He handed over an Excalibur Enterprises business card.

  The biker exhaled. Money was falling on him. The business card looked legitimate and Kyle took him back up to the business center so he could call London and verify the identity. Parl was impressed. The stranger really was a vice president. “Deal,” he said. “You can have the helmet, but not the leathers; I’m not wearing pants beneath.”

  “Good enough,” said Kyle. He pulled out a paper he had printed up earlier in the business center, filled in the numbers, counted out the cash and both he and Parl signed.

  They returned to the biker bunch with fresh cups of coffee. “I’ve got to take a long ride when we dock and this shit will freeze me to death,” Kyle said, slapping the denim jeans. “So I’m in the market. Top prices, no questions, for heavy outer and warming gear; anything you can spare.” The roads would still have a few patches of snow, and icy bridges, but hypothermia would be his greatest enemy.

  Swanson did a brisk business after the others learned that he had persuaded Parl to lease out his beloved machine, for that made him part of the two-wheeled brotherhood. When he asked them to forget that they had ever seen him, because of a police situation, they all smiled. No problem.

  The ship’s announcement came for drivers to return to their cars and prepare to dock in Tallinn and the bikers trooped down together, popped open their saddlebags and outfitted their new friend with everything he needed, including sealed heat packs. An insulated sleeping bag was lashed behind the seat. He paid their outrageous prices without question. Andre Parl gave him five minutes of instruction on the tendencies and peculiarities of the R nineT.

  Finally, Kyle slid a black neoprene neck-protecting gaiter into place over his neck, chin and mouth, pulled on the scraped black helmet and lowered the goggles, tightened the backpack straps, then fitted his hands into gauntlet-style gloves. He was ready.