There was no reason at all that he should trust the Russian.
“No, miss, thank you,” he said with a sunny smile to the hovering hostess. “Instead, I would like to board the next plane leaving here for Tallinn, Estonia. What time would that be?”
She turned and examined a screen discreetly set into the wall. It listed the departures and arrivals. “There is an Estonian Air flight leaving in about two hours, weather permitting. Would that do?”
Swanson nodded and fished out a corporate credit card. “Would you please get me a first-class ticket? Put the bags on it, and also please bring me a glass of beer. Thanks.” While his wallet was opened, he pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and gave it to her as a tip. “Appreciate your trouble.”
“It is not a problem, sir. I’ll make the arrangements, and then I will fetch that beer.” He watched her walk away, moving easily and confident in her abilities. The hostess, about thirty years old, her brown hair tucked neatly out of the way, was used to dealing with important executives and did not bat an eye at the unexpected request. Dealing with problems of elite passengers was her job and she was good at it and reflected her years of experience. In such a major airport, she had seen it all. Beneath her extremely personable act was an efficient machine.
Kyle, too, was a machine, only at another level. His skills were quite different from those of the hostess. One thing that he had learned over the years was that when all of the computations had been made, sometimes you still had to rely on your gut instinct and come up with what snipers called a SWAG — a scientific wild-ass guess. He rose and checked the screen himself, affirming his decision.
A call to Calico confirmed that he would be back to participate in Ivan’s strange debrief, and that she could call off the dogs. In trade, he wanted a brief visit with Anneli Kallasti at the safe house. He said he needed to pick the girl’s brain about something that happened in Narva before talking to the Russian again. Calico gave him the address.
Kyle then used his directory to call up the private number of Special Agent Lem James of the Diplomatic Security Service back in Helsinki. He dialed and the gruff voice answered immediately. Swanson made it quick, asking the big man to see if his pal Inspector Rikka Aura of the Finnish Security Intelligence Service would reveal the source of her tip that Swanson was to arrive on a specific diplomatic flight on that fateful night in Helsinki. James agreed that it was odd she knew the exact arrival time, and said he would try. Kyle promised a beer in return for the help, and hung up.
President Christopher Thompson preferred casual clothes to suits and ties and formal wear, although some criticized him for not properly carrying the dignity of the office. He worked better in an old sweater and tan chinos and comfortable running shoes, but could change into the dark suit costume within minutes in the private bathroom just off the Oval Office in the White House. He had been elected because of his intelligence and political skill, not because of his tailors. Two years into the office, the public had grown to tolerate the personal quirks of the tough former U.S. senator from Missouri who campaigned in a pickup truck. “Truman-like” was the usual term for his decisive decision making, and his desk proudly displayed the little sign “The Buck Stops Here” that had been made famous by President Harry S. Truman.
“So is this Russian guy the real deal? He seems to me to be a pretty weird duck,” Thompson asked. He had read the brief and was now walking around the Oval Office, a rangy figure with a full head of hair that was turning silver, and his hands in his pockets. Outside, the sky was blue and the rose garden was in riotous bloom, as were the Japanese cherry trees along the National Mall and the Tidal Basin. He was stuck indoors on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
National Security Adviser Dean Thomas answered. “Right now, it appears that he is, sir. The first thing he gave us was a winner. He revealed the previously unknown information that Moscow had fielded their new Armata battle system, their biggest and newest tanks, in total secrecy. We knew nothing about that. Then the Russians began this giant military exercise in the area around St. Petersburg yesterday and those things suddenly popped up all over the place. Satellite pictures showed them clearly. NATO considers the machines to pose a serious threat.”
“So score one for this Colonel Ivan Strakov,” said the president. He recalled that the State Department was protesting the increasingly hostile Baltic overflights by Russian aircraft.
“Yes, sir. The tanks are one thing, but Strakov’s real value is going to be in the cyber-warfare arena, once he starts talking.”
“Tell me again why he is still over in Europe instead of being locked up tight and safe over here? That makes me uneasy. The Russians might try to retrieve him.” The president stopped, leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms. He sounded accusatory.
Thomas replied, “Our allies want to keep him close at hand in Brussels. They have him well protected.”
The president rounded the desk and picked up the morning’s copy of The Washington Post. A front-page story had broken the news of Strakov’s defection, carried an old photograph of him in uniform and was comparing him to the American spy Edward Snowden. Television news had jumped on the story and it was spreading on the Internet like a rising wave. “Leaks like this drive me crazy, Dean. What’s next for him?”
“We are still weighing the options, Mr. President. The chief problem remains that he will only talk to one American: Kyle Swanson.”
“Swanson is another weird duck,” said the president, who knew the man’s checkered history. “Why is that a problem? He’s known for getting results.”
“Well, sir, right now, we don’t know where Swanson is.”
The young man was about twenty years old, and beneath an unruly mop of yellow hair was the exuberant and handsome face of a boy who was in a hurry to become a man. Anneli Kallasti spotted him as soon as he entered the little club. “That one,” she quietly told Kyle Swanson.
Kyle looked over. The kid wore an olive drab summer service uniform, with his garrison cap folded under the waist belt, and the single plain bar on the shoulder epaulets revealed that he was a corporal in the Russian army. It didn’t matter what his specialty was because Swanson just wanted to snatch a low-ranking plodder, one of those nondescript soldiers who actually make up an army. This one would be just fine. “Good. Let’s do it,” he said.
Kyle had dashed from Belgium back to Estonia and went directly to the CIA safe house pinpointed by Calico, Jan Hollings. It was a small building divided into four apartments, with the ground floor designated for communications and logistics and minders. One of the upper apartments was vacant and Anneli was staying in the other, safe but bored. She was astonished to find Kyle at her door. He had her sit on the bed while he outlined his plan, betting on a positive reaction from her. With no word on what had happened to her boyfriend, Brokk Mihailovich, she had become nervous and unsure. Little had happened since Calico had put her in this secure but isolated location, because the problem of dealing with Ivan Strakov trumped the needs of a walk-in refugee. She jumped at the idea of returning to Narva for another brief expedition with Swanson, and changed into inconspicuous jeans and a dark sweater, and found a wig of shoulder-length auburn hair that instantly altered her looks.