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, you 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.
The bow door opened and the ramp went down.
Swanson was fifth in the line of motorcycles that moved carefully down the ramp, and he was also going slowly to get the feel of the bike between his knees. The big 1170 cc engine, tuned to perfection, ejected a deep mumble from the short exhaust pipes.
When his wheels touched the solid pier, the BMW steadied, and he took a moment to glance around, confident that he could not be recognized under the layers of garments that covered him from head to toe. In a group of greeters at one side stood a woman in a long black coat, probably his CIA escort, holding a white sign that read: SWANSON. At her side was a bird colonel of the U.S. Army. Kyle twisted the handle throttle and rode away rumbling, thinking: Why didn’t they just put it up in neon? Let everybody know that the American special agent was coming in. The pair kept their eyes on the gangway, searching among the disembarking passengers for a single man in a dark suit and overcoat. They knew he had no car.
One of Swanson’s biker friends led him through the labyrinth of port streets, then around a few corners and pointed to the entrance for a multilane highway, the E-20, which would take him from the red roofs of Tallinn’s Old Town for 122 miles, all the way over to Narva, on the Russian border. Kyle waved a casual good-bye, then sped up with a twist of the throttle, merged into the traffic heading east out of the capital city and was immediately cruising at the speed limit of 110 kilometers per hour. The motorcycle strained at the slow pace, for BMW’s brilliant engineers had not crafted this machine to go only 70 miles per hour. When traffic thinned, and the roads were totally dry, Kyle cranked it up to 90, and settled in for a few minutes before cutting back to 75. That speed would not attract the attention of police, since he would not be slicing through traffic at high velocity. Drawing the attention of a traffic cop was the last thing he wanted.
Swanson was alone now, trusting only his instincts and training. The unusual mission that started in Rome had been off-kilter from the start. He didn’t know why. The Italian hit had been meticulously planned far in advance and in total secrecy, with the corresponding successful result. The follow-up step was to take out another ISIS murderer, again behind hours of precise planning and backup. That operation was as black as a coal mine, the sort of consistent professionalism that he liked about the clandestine operations of the CIA. A blue Audi loomed in front of him, and Swanson swept around it, then returned to the slow lane.
But since Rome, the veil of secrecy had been traded for a gaudy tapestry of urgency, all on the word of a single person, Ivan Strakov, a Russian colonel who was defecting. Or was he? It was as if Ivan had lit a fuse that was burning fast, although no one really knew anything about him. The CIA cover hastily thrown up to protect Kyle had been demolished by the Finnish security cop, and now the Agency had shuttled him over to Estonia, where someone at the dock was holding up a sign with his name on it. And who the hell was the bird colonel?