“Yes.” He knew the open coat would provide the man with easier access to a sidearm. Kyle wondered why that was necessary. Swanson was without a weapon of his own, and he considered that the man was a trained professional who had to weigh north of 260. “Who are you?”
“This way.” The question was ignored as the escort stalked away toward a row of buildings. Most of the windows were dark, although the city lights lit the sky behind. To one side, a ground crew was working on an F/A-18 Hornet fighter outside a hangar and the pungent smell of jet fuel hung in the night air. Spring had not yet come to Finland in the first week of April, and Swanson felt the penetrating bite of wind freshly chilled from crossing the Arctic Ocean. By the time they reached the door, he was ready to go inside to just escape the weather. The big man allowed him through first. Swanson heard the metal snick of the lock.
At a small table in the middle of a windowless room sat a man with jowls of a bulldog, eyes of a basset hound and a burr of steel-gray hair like a terrier. A manila folder was open and Kyle recognized an old picture of himself in uniform clipped to the front. “You’re Swanson,” the man said.
“I am. Who are you?”
“Sit.” It was a command, not an invitation.
Kyle was in no mood to be bullied. “No. I think I’ll leave now. I’m tired after the long trip.”
“You are not going anywhere,” the man at the table brusquely commanded, and the big escort stepped to block the locked door. “Not until you answer some questions.”
“I need to make a call first.” Swanson lifted his cell phone from his pocket, wrapping it in his hand so the bottom edge was visible.
“No calls until we’re done. Hand over your cell.”
“No.”
“Take it away from him, James.”
The large man reached forward. Swanson did not hesitate, for he knew that if that grizzly ever laid one of those big paws on him, the fight would be over. Kyle stepped inside as quickly as a snake, lashed out with his right fist, using the hard corner point of the phone like a set of brass knuckles. He whipped it hard into the man’s mouth, gouged the bottom of the nose and then skidded it up to the right eye. When Swanson’s right arm reached its full length, he hammered the phone point hard against the stunned man’s temple, jerked him forward, kicked the right knee, and rode him down as he collapsed on his face. Swanson jerked the collar of the overcoat down over the shoulders to impede the arms, but the fight had already gone out of the man, who was woozy and semiconscious by the surprise attack. A quick search turned up a snubby Sig Sauer P229R in a belt holster and the gold and blue badge of a U.S. Diplomatic Security Service special agent.
The man behind the table had jumped to his feet during the two-second fight, his hands waving, and surprise written large on his face. “Whoa! Whoa-up. Easy, there. No need for that.”
“Hell there isn’t.” Swanson held the 9mm pistol loosely. “Put your weapon and your identification on the table. Go slow. Left hand only. Do it!”
“You just assaulted a federal agent. I should arrest you.” The older man awkwardly spread out a worn leather cred case that contained the same kind of badge, and dropped another SIG on it.
“You’re both DSS? I might have shot you.” Swanson tossed the 9 mil pistol onto the table, reached over, grabbed the bleeding agent’s elbow and pulled up. “Come on, big guy. Go to the bathroom and stuff a towel on your face. It’s just a busted nose and a black eye, and maybe a torn ACL. You’ll live.”
The man stumbled to his feet, holding a hand to his bleeding nose. Instead of throwing another punch, he grinned. Special Agent Lem James did not lose many fights, had never given up his gun or his badge, and admired the quick, sure moves of the man who had just laid him out without breaking a sweat. “Thanks,” he said. “Good idea with that phone thing.” He limped away.
Kyle sat down, and the older agent did the same. The fire had been doused. “Why didn’t you identify yourselves?” he asked.
“That was my call. A mistake, as it turns out.” He adjusted his clothing, as if he had been interrupted at dinner. “I’m Bob Carver, the RSO at the Helsinki embassy. That is Special Agent Lem James in the bathroom.”
“You knew I was on that plane, so you know I’m CIA.”
“Yeah, Swanson.” The DSS regional security officer patted the folder. “I know all about you, at least according to your personnel file, which has been filled with empty pages and scrubbed until it is virtually useless. I know only that you were born in Boston, spent a lot of years as a Marine, won a Congressional Medal of Honor, are a stone killer and think that rules don’t apply to you. I do not know whether to trust you.”
Swanson grunted. “That street goes both ways. Why didn’t somebody from the CIA meet me?”
“I called in a personal favor to get a look at you before letting you step into my embassy. Since I work for the state department, that’s my turf, and you spooks are all just visitors who come and go.”
The big man came back into the room, a drenched towel held against the right side of his face, and took the third chair at the table. “Going to have to send my overcoat to the cleaners because of the bloodstains. Think you chipped my tooth, too, you fuckin’ little monster. I saw stars.” The words came in a friendly tone, professional muscle acknowledging another professional.
“Sorry,” Kyle said. The man waved it off, refolded the towel and placed it back against the bruised and swelling cheek. To the RSO: “What do I need to do to make you believe that I can be trusted?”
“You passed that mark when you didn’t blow my ass away a minute ago. Anyway, my core problem is that I already have a very strange character, a total walk-in, cooling his heels at the U.S. Embassy right now. He is a smooth bastard who says his name is Ivan Strakov, and that he is a Russian intelligence operative. He won’t say anything else, and claims he will only talk to Kyle Swanson. I sure as hell don’t know or trust him, and putting the two of you together wasn’t going to happen until I was satisfied that it all isn’t some setup. Understand?”
Swanson nodded as his memory pulled up Ivan Strakov. It was so long ago that the picture was fuzzy. “OK. That makes sense. I haven’t seen or heard from this guy in about twenty years, back when I was in the Marines and he was an enlisted man in the Russian naval infantry. I have no idea what he has been doing since then, or why he picked my name out of the hat. Let me ask: Is he in a rush, or nervous, or acting urgent?”
Carver put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling briefly. “No. Like I said, he is cool. Just waiting to see if you turn up. We have him in a private little facility within the embassy right now and are treating him well.”
Kyle nodded again, coming to a decision. “I don’t want to deal with the Russian tonight. I started early today way down in Italy and have ended it brawling with Shrek here, and I’m bushed. Let me get some sleep before starting the game tomorrow morning.”
Bob Carver agreed. “Just watch your six while you’re in town, Swanson. The place is crawling with Russian intel people. Tensions are high.”
“I’ll drive you to the hotel,” said Lem James, throwing aside the bloody towel. “You need to buy me a drink to make amends.”
3
A message was waiting when Swanson checked into the Hotel Kämp on the Norra Esplanaden. He signed the registration, directed that his luggage be placed in his suite and went to join Lem James at a back table in the bar that overlooked the sweep of a park reaching down to the waterfront. The place did not close until one in the morning, so they had about an hour. James had already downed his first Mannerheim’s shot and had one of the icy vodka blends waiting for Kyle. The glass was filled to the very brim, a local custom that made sure everyone received an equal pour. It packed a kick.