“Don’t forget that he gave up the Armata systems, Kyle,” Jeff reminded. “This new computer technology he unveiled sounds rather fascinating, too. Maybe Excalibur Enterprises needs to look into it.”
Swanson glanced at Cornwell and saw that the bushy gray brows were drawn together, the expression he usually wore when making Kyle go deeper into available information. “Just because he was right about the new tanks does not mean he won’t lie about something else. He was a top Russian intelligence agent. His job is to tell and sell lies.”
Cornwell leaned back in the comfortable deck chair, feeling the sun bright on his face. “I agree. There has been too much reaction, and much too fast. You don’t trust Strakov and I don’t trust President Pushkin. That evil man is up to something.”
Kyle agreed. “Not our problem, Jeff. You and I have to get off this boat and back to work. Some routine in our lives would be good about now. Let the guys with the big paychecks solve the world’s problems.”
The older man laughed. “You have a big paycheck yourself.”
“So I need to get back to earning my keep.”
The rest of Sunday was uneventful at sea. By dinner, they had learned that arrangements had been made to give Anneli an honored final resting place, in Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery. The girl who had never been to the United States would be treated as a fallen hero. True to the promise made to Kyle, the Nightstalkers had made her one of their own. Kyle would be able to visit her often.
When the sun set in a glorious blaze on Sunday night, Swanson stared into the golden glow in the west and had a feeling of inner peace that he had not known for some time. Things had a way of working out.
It was time to go home. Colonel Ivan Strakov of the FSB waited for his big wristwatch to show midnight, and as the second hand swept across the “12,” the day changed from Sunday to Monday in the tiny window. He rolled from the soft bed in the CIA apartment and cleaned up.
If Arial Printas had Ravensdale under control, and Valery Levchenko over in St. Petersburg had played his role properly, and the Narva election had gotten the desired result, his task was complete. The president of Russia, Valery Pushkin, would soon add Estonia — perhaps the entire Balkan region — to his bag of puppet countries. The starting point, Narva, will fall in a masterful “soft grab,” with hardly a shot being fired.
Threats, manipulations, dodges and misdirection, lies stirred with drops of truth, and the fear of a looming war in the north had been his tools. Pushkin would get Estonia, Valery would take command of the army in a bloodless coup over that senile old coward Pavel Sergeyev, and Arial would get even wealthier. And as if in a fairy tale, Ivan Strakov would get anything he wanted. He smiled into the mirror, saluted his image and quietly said, “Well played, sir.”
Strakov ambled over to the door. He was in no hurry because this was going to take some time. He knocked once, and waited. A CIA guard was always awake near the door. The swipe of an electronic card unlocked it, and Strakov took a few steps back and folded his hands on his head.
“Yes, Colonel?” asked the guard. Strakov knew his first name was Chester, but his friends called him Chet. Strakov had become friendly with the man over the past week and never had given him a moment of trouble. Chet was from Little Rock, Arkansas. “Do you need something?”
“Indeed, if you please, Chet, you fucking moron. Go wake up somebody important and tell them that I have decided not to defect after all.”
Swanson was asleep again as Sunday night gave way to Monday morning. Lulled by the rocking of the yacht, he tried to ignore the persistent knocking on his cabin door. The pounding increased in tempo and volume, a big hand making a lot of noise and a voice yelling, “Kyle! Wake up!”
He awoke, staring at the ceiling in the dark. “What?” he called out.
“Urgent call in the comm center. Washington.”
A pause while he collected his wits. Now what? “Be right there.”
Swanson kicked off the sheets, rolled from the bed, flipped on a light and slid into the underwear, baggy shorts and T-shirt he had discarded only a few hours earlier. A fresh set of clothing, from shoes and slacks to a tailored wool sports coat had been laid out for his scheduled ten o’clock departure in the morning and he saw no reason to wrinkle them unnecessarily. He went out on deck barefoot. Stars shone overhead around a crescent moon, and the briny smell of the Med was carried by a light wind.
The communication center hatch was open, and a deckhand waved him in. “CIA from Langley. Deputy Director Atkins.” The man closed the hatch and Kyle engaged a security-jamming device to cloak the conversation. Atkins was on the screen. “Marty? What’s up? Sorry for the wait, but I was asleep.”
“When was your last contact with Jan Hollings?”
That’s what this was about? “Before the mission. I guess she’s pretty angry, huh? I expected her to call you and holler for a while. Losing the girl was tough for everybody.”
“Nothing all day Sunday? You sure?”
“Absolutely,” Swanson replied. “Wasn’t she on that election thing over in Narva?”
There was an uncomfortable silence as Atkins stared into the camera. “Calico is missing, Kyle. She has missed two mandatory check-ins and does not respond to our prompts. Colonel Markey hasn’t seen her either, and he expected her home in Tallinn by midnight at the latest. She didn’t show. He’s worried.”
“How about the cops?”
“They report no major road accident between Narva and Tallinn in the past twenty-four hours.”
Swanson was wide awake now. Despite their differences, he admired Jan Hollings as a bright intelligence agent who had entrenched herself into the country that was her responsibility. “Quick question, Marty. How did those elections turn out?”
“It was a clean sweep for the pro-Russians, the Workers’ Party. Narva might as well be a Moscow neighborhood. Jan was supposed to give us a full analysis, but her call never came through.” Atkins cleared his throat. “When a CIA agent goes missing, we pull out all the stops, Kyle. Consider yourself back on duty.”
“Yeah. Okay. What’s my assignment?”
“Go find her,” said the clandestine operations boss. “Go find Calico.”
28
General Ravensdale asked Arial Printas if she might want to live in London, and received a quick rejection of that idea. He was getting dressed in the hotel bedroom where a high ceiling vaulted above them. She was still curled abed on Monday morning, a long bare leg exposed over the wrinkled white sheet. Ravensdale had been awakened by the insistent chirp of his official cell phone and an aide informed him of the new assignment to be commander of Combined JTF 10. He flipped his tie into a Windsor knot, then sat beside her. Smiled down.
“Does this mean you will get yet another star on your shoulder?” she asked.
“No. I already have four. In fact, this could be seen as a demotion of sorts because my NATO position is very near the top of the mountain.” He slid his hand along the soft exposed skin. Exquisite. She was absolutely lovely, especially in the predawn light after a breathtaking bout of making love.
“Well, I am very happy for you, Freddie. It is a most deserving honor.”
“Unexpected, to be sure. Sudden transfer and all. Such is the life of a military man.”
“Our weekend was special, wasn’t it?” She coyly bit her lip. “Are you going to toss me aside now; the soldier seducing the local girl and moving on without a thought?”