Ivan Strakov lurched wobbly to his feet. “That is the best thing you have said all night, Gunnery Sergeant. You are my friend, eh? My good friend!”
“You bet,” said Kyle. And they had not seen each other since.
Swanson was out of the hotel door at 6:30 a.m. for a morning run. He had never been to Helsinki before and looked forward to watching the city come awake. It was a good way to get to know a new place, he thought, and although it might not work in cities like Mosul or Kabul, a civilized place would reveal a lot about itself to a visitor who just bothered to look.
A few minutes later, while he was stretching out in the Esplanadi Park that sloped down to the water, Swanson realized he was already too late. It was the fourth day of April, and although spring had not arrived, the snow was gone from the city and was being replaced by patches of green. The grass was coming alive. The Finns were already out in force — joggers, runners, walkers, cyclists and convoys of men, women, boys and girls who zoomed along the pavement on rubber-tired skis to stay in shape for next winter’s cross-country treks out in the deep forests. Fitness was a priority. He loped off, staying in the slow lane along the sidewalks and boulevards so as not to be run over by some Flying Finn.
Senate Square, the cathedrals, Parliament House, monuments, government buildings, the libraries and government buildings, and boats in the harbor all spun quietly by, and all of them seemed extraordinarily clean and scrubbed. Early-bird workers in fashionable clothes were arriving on trams to get their offices open by eight, and vendors and customers were already busy in the Hietalahti flea market. Four miles later he was back where he started, bent over, hands on knees, catching deep breaths of cool air, and he understood that what he had witnessed were outward manifestations of contentment in the capital city of Finland.
He found a newsstand and bought a copy of the International New York Times, then found a sidewalk café and sat outside beneath an umbrella. A young woman with thick golden hair that fell over her shoulders appeared as soon as he was seated. “May I suggest a light breakfast, sir?” The English was perfect.
Kyle looked at her. Tall and athletic. “How did you know I spoke English?”
“You look like an American and you’re reading an English-language newspaper. Almost everyone here speaks it, and Swedish, which is really our national language.” Her smile was as bright as the morning. “Finnish, too, obviously. It can be confusing. Since you are apparently a tourist, let me suggest a warm bowl of rolled oat porridge with butter, cheese and fruit, and a large mug of light-roast coffee.”
“I like my coffee strong,” he countered.
“Try this first. The water from the mountains makes it a local favorite. We should know. We drink more coffee than anybody on the planet.”
“Seattle might challenge that.”
“Seattle would lose.”
“OK. I’ll give it a try.” She went away and Kyle leafed through the big pages of the newspaper. It seemed almost archaic in the world of technology, but there was just something about handling the paper, reading long stories without having to jump around through a lot of Web sites, and even getting smudges of ink on his fingertips that gave a newspaper the familiar feeling that Swanson enjoyed.
Nothing on the front page interested him, since it was mostly about politics. Another bomb in Baghdad. Inside, there was a five-paragraph wire story about a terrorist being killed in Rome. Front-to-back, no mention of Ivan the Terrible. The breakfast came and the waitress had been right about the coffee. The porridge tasted like grits and berries. She had pink sunshine on her cheeks, edging away the winter paleness.
A scan of his cell phone gave him no more fresh information than he had gotten from the newspaper. Janna Ecklund had e-mailed the day’s schedule for the Washington office of Excalibur, and she wanted to know how long he would be in Finland. He answered with a brief response that he would know more after the meeting at the Defence Ministry. In other words, he had no idea. The business-related chatter was needed to keep the cover tight.
Then he still had some spare time before meeting Big Lem, so he had another coffee and thought about Finland some more. Why is he here? The nation was more complex than it appeared on the surface. The lessons of history had been very hard, but the people had put together a country that reflected who they were. Although they were not warlike, they were fierce fighters. The Nazis had found that out the hard way in World War II when they ran into the Finns in the mountains, as had the invading Swedes hundreds of years earlier, and the Russians later on. Even today, there was mandatory conscription of two years for every Finnish man, but peace had worked better than war in this isolated part of the world. There was a social democracy with a cradle-to-grave welfare structure that was uniquely Finnish. The citizenry was protected, educated, safe and secure. Laziness was not rewarded, however, and the country had a thriving economy. Camelot in the snow.
So, Swanson thought, it seemed to have been sort of silly of him to carry a concealed weapon and his credentials on his sunny morning outing, but that was who he was. And just because no bunch of terrorists was running around throwing bombs, and there was no noticeable street crime, did not mean that danger was on holiday. In fact, Swanson had the sense that everyone in this city was intent on wringing every drop of happiness they could get out of this warm new season, before it was too late.
He paid the breakfast bill, left the newspaper folded for some other reader, and headed back to the hotel, where he halted on the first step, turned and waited for the two people who had been following him to catch up.
4
They had not been cautious with their movements, which indicated they had nothing to conceal nor anything to fear, which further indicated that they were a pair of cops.
An attractive middle-aged woman wearing a plain-knit white crewneck sweater and jeans stepped forward. A mane of blond hair parted in the middle swept to her shoulders. Her partner was a solid, straw-haired man with sharp blue eyes set in an otherwise blank face that had been leathered by the winter sun. An outdoorsman, and in good shape, Kyle thought. The man edged off to one side, opening space to triangulate Swanson, who recognized the tactical shift. It was the move of a professional and meant that if Kyle chose to resist, he could only deal with them as individuals.
“Mister Swanson, I am Inspector Rikka Aura, and this is Sergeant Alan Kiuru. We are with the Security Intelligence Service and would appreciate a few minutes of your time.” She flashed a badge. She was not really asking; she was telling. Inspector Aura was with Supo, the Suojelupoliisi, federal police, and had the power of her government at her back.
“I’m right here in front of you, Inspector. What do you want?”
“In private, if you please.”
He grinned. “I prefer that we stay in public view. I feel more comfortable out here.”
“I must insist,” Aura answered politely. “We prefer not to discuss national security issues in front of big hotels.”
With the preliminary fencing complete, Kyle nodded. “Let’s go up to my suite. I’ll order some coffee,” he said. He had forty-five minutes before the American DSS escort agent was to arrive. The CIA was expecting him. People at the U.S. Embassy knew he was coming. The Finnish Defence Ministry had him scheduled for after lunch. Ivan the Terrible, the Russian who had started the dominoes falling, was aware that Kyle was probably on the way. Now a pair of Supo agents had shown up, and it wasn’t yet nine o’clock. For a mission that had begun in the utmost surprise and secrecy less than twenty-four hours earlier, a lot of people knew that Kyle Swanson was in Helsinki.