TEN
Will Cochrane was standing on the deck of the trawler. In the distance he could see the snow-covered, mountainous coastline of Greenland. The boat wasn’t drawing nearer to land; instead it was sailing parallel to the coast as it headed south toward the tiny port of Tasiilaq. Though the sky was now clear and had stopped yielding snow at least thirty minutes ago, large flakes were all around him, held in the air by sudden gusts of wind that were preventing them from reaching the sea.
Will gulped down tea that was stewed, nothing like the loose-leaf Assam blend that he liked to delicately prepare with no milk or other accompaniments. But out here it tasted as good as anything else he’d drunk, and in any case he knew the captain’s wife would give him a stern telling off if he didn’t drink and eat everything she prepared for him. The hardy crew consumed anything they could to survive out here; it was as simple as that. Will was not permitted to be an exception.
The three adult sons were also on deck, preparing the vessel as it neared port. Though a few years older than them, Will blended in with their appearance — warm clothes and boots, and faces that were covered with a few days’ growth of beard. They ignored him, as no doubt the captain had told them to do, and got on with their chores of lashing ropes, removing seaweed from nets, hosing and scrubbing the deck, and squaring away anything that wasn’t tied down.
The boat changed direction. Will glanced at the cabin and could see the captain inside, holding the wheel with one hand and a radio mic in the other while speaking inaudibly. Will knew the captain was radioing ahead to the Tasiilaq’s harbormaster, telling him they were approaching the port, would need a berth, and had all necessary papers ready for inspection. The captain knew from previous experience that the harbormaster usually took his time before coming to the berthed vessel to check all documentation was in order, because the captain had always proven to be meticulous with his papers and cooperative. Most international smugglers are.
His vessel had only been boarded once by the customs officer who worked alongside the harbormaster, and that was only because his boss in the Nuuk HQ had decided he needed the practice. He hadn’t found any contraband on the boat and he never would, because the captain had good hiding places in the vessel. But on this occasion, the only illegal thing he was carrying was Will Cochrane.
The captain had told Will how it would happen. He would be first off the vessel and would do his normal routine of walking down the jetty carrying a crate of bourbon, which would be his gift to the harbormaster and those who worked alongside him in the port. The captain’s wife and sons would stand beside the boat. At that point, the captain would have completed his job of covertly getting Will to Greenland. How Will got himself off the boat was of no interest to the captain.
Will rubbed his nails through his stubble, wondered if he should shave before they reached land, and decided that anything that made him look less like himself should stay. He checked his watch. They were only three-quarters of a mile away from the port and would arrive in less than thirty minutes. He placed a hand over the handgun secreted under his belt and watched the Danish province of Greenland draw nearer.
Danish police officer Daniel Møller placed the remains of his thick raw beef and egg sandwich on his plate and put a fist on his chest while holding his breath to try to suppress a burp. The only other Rigspolitiet law enforcement officer in or anywhere near Tasiilaq was Johanne Lund, and she was sitting exactly 2.5 yards away from him at her desk in the small office that overlooked the port. Since they’d been working together for the last eleven months, Møller had burped sixteen times in front of her and always at lunchtime. Not deliberately; just that he’d been manning the office on his own for a year before his superiors in Nuuk decided to second a newly qualified officer to his post, so that she could experience what the force described as “community policing.” Before then, Møller’s work habits had no consequences. After the female officer arrived, the thirty-two-year-old Møller had made a conscious effort to share the shoebox office with Johanne in a way that was respectful to his new cohabitant. But sometimes he just plain forgot. After the sixteenth time, Johanne had plucked up the courage to tell her boss that perhaps he should purchase some medicine to ease his digestion.
He looked at her and she was head down typing a report. The trapped wind abated; this was good, no embarrassment to be caused in front of the woman who he was beginning to take a shine to. His phone rang, and he picked up the receiver, opened his mouth, and involuntarily let out a loud burp. Damn. “Officer Møller.”
A woman introduced herself. American. FBI. She asked, “You speak English?”
“Better than Kalaallisut.” Danish through and through, Møller had been struggling to learn the native language of Greenland at night school for the last two years since he was transferred to the country. Thankfully for him, Danish was also widely spoken. “How can I help, Ms. Gage?”
“Mrs.” Marsha Gage spoke to him for ten minutes. “Strikes me your port is the only one on the east side of Greenland where a boat might head to from Norway or Iceland.”
“It is.” Møller looked at his sandwich, considered taking a bite, but thought better of it. “It’s rare for my office to get calls from the FBI.”
“Rare?”
“Unprecedented.”
“I’m sure.” The woman sounded tense. “You got weapons there?”
“Of course.” Shit, when was the last time he’d cleaned his sidearm?
“A team?”
Møller looked at Johanne. “A team, yes.”
“Who runs the port?”
“Papik Zeeb, harbormaster.”
“Can he be useful to you?”
Møller smiled. “He’s seventy-two years old, and before you ask, he’s never held a weapon, let alone got one.”
“Anyone else?”
“Salik Knudsen, our customs guy. He’s capable enough, and we go hunting together in the summer months. I’ll give him a handgun.” Møller saw that Johanne had stopped writing and was staring at him. “How likely is it that the man’s heading our way?”
“Can’t answer that. But I can say that some of the world’s most sophisticated security services haven’t spotted him in Scandinavia or Europe.”
“And who is he?”
Marsha hesitated, then told him.
Møller’s face paled, and sweat began to drip down his forehead. “This most certainly is… unprecedented.” He replaced the handset and called the harbormaster. “Any boats due in from Scandinavia or Iceland?”
Zeeb answered, “We’ve had nothing for weeks and only one due in during the next month.”
“When will it arrive?”
“About twenty minutes’ time.”
“Twenty minutes?!” Urgently, Møller said, “We’re on our way. Get Knudsen to meet us at the harbor.” He ended the call, stood, and looked at his colleague. “We need three sidearms from the gun cabinet, plus spare ammo. I’ll get the car.” He paused, felt breathless, and quickly said, “I was going to ask you to join me for a drink after work. Sorry. Stupid, I guess, but thought you ought to know. Just in case… in case.”
Salik Knudsen stared through binoculars while standing next to the harbormaster at the base of the long jetty. The blond-haired, blue-eyed customs officer could easily see the trawler slowly heading toward the berthing station at the head of the narrow pier. “Møller didn’t say anything else?”
Papik Zeeb shook his head. “Just that there’s a slim chance the boat might be carrying illegal cargo.” The old man looked uncertain. “What should I do?”
“Go back to your office. Put a call into my HQ telling them that I’m about to conduct an on-board search alongside police officers Møller and Lund.” He glanced at Zeeb. “Stay there until one of us calls you once the search is complete.”