“We have a guest for dinner tonight, Kyle,” Cornwell said. “My friend Freddie is flying over to be with us.”
Swanson almost choked on his drink. “The same little shit who threatened to blackmail us out of business if I didn’t do what he wanted?”
“The very one,” Jeff replied genially. “Time to mend some fences, eh? And you will be polite and will not refer to General Sir Frederick Ravensdale, the deputy supreme allied commander of NATO in Europe, as a little shit. At least not to his face.”
Swanson lifted his beer. “Gee, Pops, do I have to?”
“Yes. Now that I’m settled aboard, please call in the SAS boys and that lovely dark-haired creature that I saw them orbiting about on deck. I assume that is your Miss Kallasti. Patricia will be quite pleased when I send a photograph, and she may start thinking about wedding gowns again.”
“Oh, Jesus, your wife has problems. I suggest we place her in an assisted-living facility.”
Sar’nt Stanley Baldwin and Corporal Grayson Perry had known Cornwell only as a legend within their elite unit, and that cemented them as friends from the first handshakes. Anneli stayed close to Kyle, shy in the presence of a man of such obvious wealth and power, but Jeff smashed that barrier within minutes. The waitress from Estonia was soon laughing with the rest of them. Cornwell told a naughty story about a new member of Parliament.
The captain of the Vagabond, Trevor Dash, leaned into the cabin and motioned Kyle outside. “You have an urgent contact from Langley,” he said.
The private, encrypted call from Marty Atkins did not take very long, since it was just a broad overview. Swanson confirmed that the secure computer was ready to receive a large data dump, and it lofted over the Atlantic Ocean in an incredibly short time, for the yacht’s comm suite was totally compatible with the machines in Virginia. Soon, Kyle was calling portions up on the screen while the large printer in the corner spat out page after page. It did not take long to understand that this was a big-league mission that reached far beyond a diplomatic protest note. He liked it, although he knew nothing about the country called Kaliningrad.
A Russian general named Victor Mizon was getting his second star and being bumped up from a deputy chief of the Border Service of Kaliningrad to be a first deputy head of the service. By coincidence, the promotion would become effective next week on his birthday, during a final tour of his field command. A party was being arranged in his honor at a small border camp south of the city of Nesterov, a base where the general had once served as a mere lieutenant.
With bureaucratic efficiency, it was known as FSB Artillery Camp 8351 on Moscow lists, and as Rooster Cap Nowak in NATO, which used computer-generated code names. It lay almost right on the boundary between Kaliningrad and Lithuania, and was only a stone’s throw from Poland. That corner emplacement was protected by a battery of 120mm heavy mortars, with a range of sixteen miles, artillery pieces that were capable of lobbing high-explosive rounds into two adjoining countries.
A heavy forest and swamp lay along Lake Vištytis, which stretched toward Lithuania. A road network that fed through the border camp junction showed routes all the way to Poland. Swanson made another note. Doing a sniper hit was one thing; extracting was a different ball game. The entire operation was going to be dicey. Difficult, but he still liked it. It was a straight, sweet and simple retaliation for a Russian attack that had claimed the lives of eight soldiers plus the Russky pilot.
He continued reading, growing more fascinated with each page. Another factor was the quality of the unit there. Once, such a place had been staffed by mere border guards with a couple of machine guns, but in recent years, the duty had been wrapped into the Federal Security Service, the FSB, which indicated an upgraded level of militarized training. The background papers showed it was no isolated independent operation of the state. It now belonged to Russia’s huge Western Military District, which was based in St. Petersburg; in other words, it was part of the Russian army. No FSB general, not even one with personal alumni links, would bother to inspect a mere wide spot in the road where guards checked the papers of truck drivers. There were real soldiers there. It was something else to put in the mix.
When the computer downloads and printouts were finished, he momentarily studied a file photo of the target, then shifted the data to a flash drive, wiped the secured memory and locked everything in a safe. He was astonished to realize that more than two hours had passed since he had entered the room, and also that he needed a shower. The smell of stale sweat might hint that he was under pressure. It was nothing that a bar of soap and some hot water could not cure. Never let ’em see you sweat, he thought, and hurried to his cabin.
His personal warrior ethos did not allow him to quibble with what was, at its root, an assassination order. Marty Atkins had told him that it had been cleared to the top, which Kyle knew meant it had been stamped by the White House. That was enough for him.
20
General Sir Frederick Ravensdale, GCB, GBE, DSO, had arrived by the time Swanson returned to the great cabin. The famed Briton was immersed in light conversation with his SAS pals — a corporal, a sergeant and a retired colonel — as if they were sitting around a campfire somewhere, telling war stories, instead of at a table set for dinner with fine china and silver. Like other elite services, the SAS did not let rank stand in the way of unit cohesiveness, and everyone was in a good mood. The general was tall, with silvering hair and a perfect smile and impeccable manners. Kyle had last seen him in London, and the man had not lost an inch of gravitas since then. Swanson sized him up and thought, some guys have it all. The welcome was quick and seemed genuine, but Kyle, on close inspection, detected the wary blue eyes had lines in the corners and shadowy bags beneath, not an unusual look for someone under immense pressure in an important job.
Swanson greeted him with courtesy, then sat in the chair that had been kept empty. He took the step needed to bury the hatchet and soothe the general’s complaint about Swanson not wanting to interview the Russian defector. “I apologize for the misunderstanding on that other matter, General. That issue is back on track, and I trust any disagreement has been laid to rest.”
Ravensdale nodded with solemnity. “Done and done, Kyle. It was never a personal matter. Only that NATO was very concerned with that delicate situation.”
“It seems to be getting more delicate by the minute.” Kyle had to keep reminding himself that he was now a civilian with money and influence, and did not need to say “sir” to anyone. He changed the subject. “In any case, I am glad you came out tonight. I need your permission to borrow these two SAS boys for a special mission. Maybe we can get them to do something more to earn their keep than babysit Anneli out here on open water.”