Swanson went to the sink and washed his face and brushed his teeth, then staggered back to bed. He had been used and had not even noticed.
Kyle Swanson did not go to the massive central NATO headquarters complex in Brussels the next morning. Instead, still another CIA type met him in the hotel lobby and drove him northwest into the lightly populated municipality of Koekelberg. The small, out-of-the-way part of the central region of the metropolis was ideal for the safe house that was an entire building only a few blocks from the huge Basilica of the Sacred Heart. Another anonymous company escort waiting at the elevator in an underground garage checked his creds and then took him past a guard with a submachine gun and up to the second floor. Nobody said a word.
He had not made up his mind on how to handle this meeting with Ivan Strakov and was still measuring the variables when he stepped into a neat little conference room. After having listened to Colonel Markey and being visited by the Boatman, Kyle was seething with anger at the Russian for having duped him back in the sniper school days. Balancing that personal affront was the fact that it was only Swanson’s ego being bruised for that one. After all, Ivan was just doing his job as an intelligence officer, and he had not learned any secret material because he flunked out before getting very far along in sniper training. But after the strange, brief visit to Finland and the deadly trip to Narva, Kyle was certain something serious was going on, and the Russian was part of the mystery, so it was worth hearing what he had to say. Some day in the future, perhaps, he could get Strakov alone and beat the crap out of him just for old time’s sake. For now, Swanson knew he should remain cool, listen to what the defector had to say, then dump the whole matter onto someone else’s desk. He would prove the Boatman wrong this time.
Brokk Mihailovich writhed on the bucking and jerking floor of the freight car, searching for a bit of comfort. His bruised eyes and the broken nose and the cuts on his face gave him the look of a battered raccoon. The forsaken passengers aboard the train had lost one man during the first night, an elderly fellow with a bad head wound who had coughed blood from the moment he was thrown into the stinking car. So far today, the only death had been a frail child who had been hauled in along with her mother. Both had been cruelly brutalized. The child, about twelve, died with tears on her face, unable to comprehend what had happened. That left a cargo of nineteen people still alive and rolling northeast, unaware of any legal charges against them, unaware of where they were going, unaware of what the next mile might bring.
Mihailovich lay still so it didn’t hurt so much as the train lurched onward. He had spent the previous night—Two nights ago, was it now? He had missed some hours while unconscious—in a warm bed with Anneli after drinking with that Canadian writer who could hold his liquor but who had proven to be of no use to them politically. Breakfast had been a bit of pastry and coffee, and she was still beneath the sheets when he left for the university. He was scheduled for a nine o’clock lecture on the strategic business skills necessary for working in this changing new day of progress in Estonia. A few students were still yawning during the early class, but they all made it through. It was a bright group, and he had hopes for them. They were the future of the nation.
By noon, Brokk was well into the stride of his workday and had gathered his popular usual luncheon group on the greening lawn to discuss politics. He acted as an unofficial moderator so the kids could debate aspects of freedom and reform. It was stimulating and hopeful and inspired volunteers to help his campaign for mayor.
When Brokk went into the bathroom to empty his bladder of the strong coffee and tea he had been drinking throughout the morning, there was a large, lumbering man with wavy brown hair and a round face at the sink. He looked out of place on the campus in his lace-up boots with thick heels and heavy vest over blue work trousers; he smelled of cigarette smoke. The man did not even glance into the mirror, but concentrated on washing his hands, sluicing water around and around.
Brokk stepped to the urinal and pulled at his zipper and stared down, as men do in public bathrooms to create a polite zone of privacy. The man at the sink turned off the water, pulled a paper towel from a dispenser on the wall and slowly dried his hands. Brokk finished, straightened himself, adjusted his backpack and went to the now-vacant sink. The big man reached into a vest pocket as if he was taking out a cell phone, but suddenly spun back and plunged the twin prods of a stun gun into the side of Brokk’s neck. The young lawyer arched back in pain as the electricity seized him and there was a sudden smell of burned flesh. He collapsed to the dirty floor with arms and legs thrashing in spasms, his mouth gaping open in surprise, then his body went limp. Brokk did not feel the prick of the needle that was thrust into his arm to administer a strong sedative.
That was when he lost track of time, for when he swam back to the surface of consciousness, he could not count how long he had been out. He awakened in a windowless room of sturdy stone walls. When he had groaned, someone sloshed water into his face and demanded, “Where is the girl?”
Brokk’s confused brain could not shape who was yelling at him or what the loud voice was yelling about. The beating began. “Your slut, lawyer-boy! Where is your partner, Anneli Kallasti?” He realized that whoever this was did not have her in custody, a bit of knowledge that made him feel better. Knowing his own future had flown from being bright and limitless to being as bleak as a dirt grave no matter what he said or did, he would not give her up. They worked him hard. His lies made no difference.
Later, he was pulled from the room with his toes dragging along the stones because he could no longer stand on his own. In a cavernous terminal waited a diesel locomotive and a string of freight cars, all painted flat black and lined up in deep shadow. It seemed like a long, hungry snake. Soldiers with weapons guarded each car. Other prisoners shuffled forward on their own or were carried into the cars, then the guards slammed and locked the doors. Brokk passed out again. When he awoke, pain was squeezing his head and he rolled to his side and threw up, coughed and wiped his bloody mouth on a sleeve and wondered in a brief moment of clarity if he had said anything that might have helped them find Anneli. He hoped not.
The train was under speed, stopping periodically to load even more prisoners and remove the corpses. It was impossible to tell time or direction, but the stunned prisoners talked among themselves and decided it had to be going east and north, and out there lay the great Siberian wastelands.
Dying wasn’t so hard, Brokk thought as blood hemorrhaged in his head. He had made a difference, had done all he could to help his country, and although the election would turn out badly now, he hoped the people would rise up to stop any attempt at reunification with Russia. Also, and just as important to him, he had enjoyed the love of a good woman; every moment with Anneli had been a treasure. Finally, tired and hurt and without hope of being saved, he gave up, smiled at the remembered image of her face and floated away. His final view was one that was conjured by his imagination; a black train far below him, snaking through the dark countryside.
12
NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, had existed for more than half a century, a security alliance founded upon the pledge of mutual defense in the event of an armed attack on any member state by an external party. It achieved its original goal, which was to corral Soviet expansionism in Europe. The demolition of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the reunification of Germany, and the end of the Cold War meant that NATO had won. In a sudden rush, the countries of Hungary, the Czech Republic and Poland, free of Moscow’s rule, joined the alliance. Since then, another seven former Soviet republics that had been members of the defunct rival Warsaw Pact came aboard. By 2009, NATO boasted twenty-eight member nations, from as large as the United States to as small as Estonia. Russia was reduced to being a second-rate power and a shattered empire. The Russian economy stagnated, so did the military budget, but eventually the big ship had righted itself. Now the Bear was stirring again, starting the long climb back into the game. It dealt first with the rebels in Chechnya, and then had tamed Georgia, and next took a big bite of the Ukraine. NATO did nothing. The time had come to pay attention to the northern front.