The coastline was barely visible through the inclement weather, but it was most certainly drawing nearer and looked as rugged as the seaboard vista that Will had seen as he’d approached Greenland. But this was Canada. He’d have zero help here and would somehow need to travel west and south to reach America.
He screwed the thermos shut, opened the sandwiches, and took a bite. The bread tasted home baked, and inside was salmon that had been smoked, drizzled with lime juice, and sprinkled with cracked peppercorns. Again, not what he expected. After he swallowed a mouthful, some of it was involuntarily squeezed back up his gullet as the plane repeatedly bounced midair. He winced, desperately trying not to vomit out the food that Ulana had prepared with care and most likely a desire to ensure her passenger died with a full and contented belly. Thankfully, he managed to swallow it back down, though the bodily action had left an acrid sensation in his throat and mouth.
Ulana shouted, “Make ready. We’re landing on a deserted track. It’s going to be a bumpy landing. You can sue me later.” She turned the plane and flew even closer to the sea.
The lower altitude meant Will could no longer see the land; instead it looked like Ulana was going to put the Islander onto water. He put on his jacket, gloves, balaclava, and ski goggles. Then a thud, followed by staccato jolts as the plane’s wheels came into contact with land. Will lurched forward as Ulana slowed the aircraft, thrust out his arms to prevent him from head-butting Ulana’s seat, and forced his upper body back as the Islander came to a halt.
Ulana turned the engine off, quickly donned her winter gear, jumped out of the plane, opened Will’s door, and shouted, “Come on. Duty Free’s open.”
Will stepped out of the plane and was nearly knocked off his feet by the force of the wind. It was even stronger than it had been in Greenland. And as he looked around, the place looked more desolate and barren. Mountains were at least twenty miles away; most of the land around him was relatively flat, windswept, and covered with snow and ice that was being whipped into a frenzy by the gale. There were no buildings here, no sign of any life.
Ulana reached into the craft, opened a compartment, and withdrew a spade. “Quickly, now.”
Will ran alongside her for 150 yards until she abruptly stopped and thrust the spade into the snow.
“X marks the spot. You’ll need to go down at least two feet and four by three feet wide.” She checked her watch. “Start digging. I’m going to inspect the aircraft for any damage.”
As she sprinted back to the plane, Will grabbed the spade and began his task. His wrists and arms jarred in pain as he slammed the spade into the frozen ground, making him wonder if he’d be able to remove much more than a few inches of snow and soil. But he continued anyway, knowing that he’d die out here if he didn’t access the cache. Ten minutes later, he’d gotten down to one foot.
Ulana reappeared, cupped a hand next to his head, and shouted, “I’m good to go.”
A fresh gust of wind pushed her back so quickly that Will had to grab her arm to stop her from crashing to the ground. “You should wait until this dies down!”
“Too dangerous. This kind of weather usually hangs around for days.” During which time, she’d freeze to death or be captured. “I’ve got to make the flight back before it gets worse.”
The wind sounded like the howl of a wolf, though many times louder.
“Please, Ulana! Come with me. We can lay low somewhere until it’s safe to come back here.”
Ulana shook her head. “Never done that before and I’m not going to start now.” Though Will couldn’t see it, underneath her balaclava she was smiling. “As tempting as it may be to lay with you for a day or so.”
Will was about to make further objections.
But Ulana held out her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Cochrane. Word of advice: if it doesn’t work out, don’t do prison. Every wannabe hard man will want to test himself against you. When you’re exhausted, one of them might get lucky.”
Will could see that Ulana’s mind was made up. He shook her gloved hand. “Be safe and take a risk by going back at a higher altitude.”
“High altitude, low altitude. Different risks. Same outcome.”
Will didn’t know how to respond, then settled on “What are you going to call your boy?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Something strong.” She patted him on the arm. “Just occurred to me — there’s one good name I can think of.” She pointed north, shouted, “Nearest road’s eight miles that way,” turned, and ran back to the plane.
Will watched her while continuing the excruciating dig. The task in hand made Will admire Ulana and her team even more. Most others would have found the futile yet backbreaking and fraught task of maintaining the Canadian border a soul-destroying job. Not so these Russians.
Ulana started up the Islander’s engine, gave Will the thumbs-up just before a blast of snow momentarily obscured her and the craft, turned the plane around, and immediately accelerated away before taking off.
Will saw the plane get smaller as it commenced its journey back to Greenland. He counted each dig, rationalizing that when he got to one hundred he’d be finished.
On the fifth dig, Ulana’s plane was at least one hundred yards over the lethal sea.
On the sixth dig, the plane flipped sideways, crashed into the strait, and was tossed on the waves.
Will screamed, “No!” and sprinted as fast as he could through the driving wind until he reached the water’s edge.
Jump in there?
Die in seconds?
Didn’t matter.
He began removing anything that would slow his swim down.
The plane began to sink into the freezing depths.
In a state of panic, he tore off his jacket.
He stopped.
He couldn’t hear the sound of the gunshot. But he could see its result. Blood splattered over the inside of the aircraft’s windows.
Ulana had taken her own life.
SIXTEEN
It was 6 A.M. as Marsha Gage strode along a Bureau corridor toward her office. Her cell phone rang. London number. What time was it there? About five hours ahead, she reckoned. “Marsha Gage.”
“Agent Gage, this is Detective Superintendent Barclay.”
“Hi, Terry. How did you manage at the apartment?”
“Not well.”
“Damn it, was hoping we’d get at least one lead there.”
“We didn’t get any leads, but Cochrane’s place was trashed. Expertly torn apart.” He told her everything.
Marsha snapped her cell shut and walked faster.
Bo Haupman smiled as he saw Marsha walking toward him, was about to greet her, then saw something in her expression and body language that warned him he should give her a very wide berth. As she strode past him without uttering a word or giving him a glance, her face looked thunderous.
She entered the FBI ops room and slammed the door shut. “Alistair! I need a word. Right now.”
She didn’t give the MI6 controller a chance to respond, instead walked fast into an adjacent small room, leaned against the desk, and folded her arms.
Alistair entered, looking completely unperturbed by her evident anger. “What is it, my dear?”
“Don’t you my dear me.”
“Breathe, Mrs. Gage. It’ll do you a world of good.”
“So would slapping someone right now.”
“And who would be top of your list?”