The policeman said, “I should check in with my sergeant first, sir. My orders were that after the building closed for the day, she became my personal responsibility.”
Pran was short on patience and even shorter on time. “This is for a high-level and confidential meeting, young man. Officials from Moscow have arrived to interview this spy in a private place that has the proper equipment. Also, I am the one now giving you an order, and I outrank your sergeant.”
“Nevertheless, she remains my responsibility, Mayor Pran.”
That was the sticking point. Pran said, “Then you will accompany us. She will be in your presence except while being interviewed concerning sensitive information, then you and I will return her back here in a few hours. We will not awaken your sergeant. If any question arises, I will take full responsibility. I want no trace of her being with the Russians before the official transfer tomorrow. It might worsen an already delicate international problem, do you understand?”
The policeman was satisfied. It was a thoroughly Russian operation. He was covered. “Just one moment, sir.” He reached for his keys.
Inside the bomb shelter cell, Jan Hollings heard the scrape of metal on metal as the door was unlocked. She dropped the blanket and awaited the unknown, willing herself to remain strong, no matter what.
31
The sniper had to make certain he did not eat too much. A taste of the creamy dessert and a sip of water to finish. This was the way to work, Kyle thought. All the comforts of home. It was much better than slumming around in a hole in the ground, dirty, hungry and uncomfortable, as was the case just a few days ago in Kaliningrad. Unbidden, the memories flooded back and he was running for the chopper, Anneli at his heels, while high-explosive mortar shells slammed down.
Damn! The niggling feeling that had been itching in his brain ever since the fight, that something was off-kilter, came around again and he still could not put a finger on it.
The sound of an automobile pulling up outside brought him back to the job at hand, and Swanson readjusted his mask, picked up the gun and checked his watch. Forty minutes had passed since the mayor had left. Moving to the wife, he tied a napkin around her eyes for a blindfold. “This is almost over,” he said.
Swanson heard one car door close, and a few seconds later, another was shut, and then a third, which was one too many. He put away his Colt because any shooting inside would be loud enough to draw attention from neighbors. Instead, he slid a broad-bladed KA-BAR knife into his hand. He backed against the wall beside the door and waited. Footfalls on the steps, then the porch, and the door opened. Mayor Pran came inside first, calling out desperately for his wife, “Ivi!”
Calico was next in line, handcuffed. She stepped tentatively inside, guided by the hand of the uniformed policeman who was last in line. Swanson jerked the cop off balance and jammed seven inches of razor sharp carbon steel into the neck twice, and ruthlessly gouged through muscles, tissue and arteries. Another thrust went into the chest and sliced through a chunk of heart before the point stopped against the spine. The cop exhaled a long, final bubble of breath. While Swanson closed the door, blood poured from the cop’s severed carotid artery and hosed everything near it, painting the floor and the furniture crimson.
The mayor had thought about his next move during the drive home, betting that the man in the black mask would attack the policeman. Ignoring his wife’s scream, Pran yanked open the top drawer of a small and polished table to grab a Makarov PM pistol stored inside. He stopped cold when he saw the drawer was empty. He turned with his hands in the air, and saw the invader watching him, holding a long knife that dripped blood on the carpet. “No. Please don’t kill me,” he mumbled.
Kyle waved him to the chair across from his wife and lightly touched the arm of Jan Hollings, who had rolled away from the fighting. “You OK?” he asked softly, never taking his eyes off the mayor. Calico knew it was Swanson. She bobbed her head.
Konstantin Pran was roughly bound with tape again until he was completely immobilized, except for his mouth.
“I warned you not to bring the police,” Swanson hissed at him.
“I tried. The man insisted, but we were wasting time. I knew you could handle him.” Pran’s eyes were huge in fear. He looked at the dead policeman and the quarts of red blood that were still spilling from the body.
“Well, you made it with eleven minutes to spare.”
“The bomb,” said the mayor, his eye catching the red numbers of the detonator of his wife’s clay necklace. They were still blinking. 9:36… 9:35. “Stop the bomb. Don’t blow us up.”
Kyle ignored him. A quick search of the mayor gave up the car keys, and the key to the handcuffs was on the belt of the dead cop. Swanson freed Calico. “Don’t say a word until we’re in the car. Walk normally. Let’s go!”
The mayor shouted as they left, no longer pleading for his life, but a bellowing, defiant challenge. “You cannot stop it! Even if you kill us tonight, you cannot stop it!”
That made no sense to Swanson, but as he opened the door, he felt Jan Hollings hesitate and look back over her shoulder. The mayor was wobbling in the chair, trying to escape. He was trussed like a trapped hog, and his screams were matched by the muffled cries of his terrified wife. “Oh, shit,” Swanson muttered, and dashed over long enough to slap strips of tape over Pran’s mouth.
Calico was still in the doorway, with tears running down her face. She also moved to the mayor and slapped him hard across the cheek. “Yes, we can, and we will!” she hissed, then slapped again with the other hand.
Swanson pulled her back. “Stop that. We’ve got to go, and right now! Get to the car.” He gave her a push and followed her out. Something he did not understand had just happened right in front of him, and Calico seemed to be on fire.
In less than two minutes, the Volvo was on the move. Kyle rolled his mask off and tossed it in the back. Jan knew the roads better, but she was bent over in the passenger seat, her head between her knees and her hands threading in her hair as she hauled in great gulps of air. “Are you sick? What’s wrong, Calico? Talk to me.”
She turned to look at him. There was effort and fright in her gaze that he had never seen before. “Kyle, do you have comms? Anything at all we can use to get in touch with somebody?”
“No. I don’t do this sort of thing with a phone on me. No tracking allowed. What’s the fastest way out of here, back to Tallinn?” He took a corner and drove down a darkened street.
She peeked up over the dash and got her bearings. “Take a right in two blocks. That leads to the traffic circle, then straight west on the E-20.” She still seemed on the edge of panic.
“Calm down now. We’re safe. Comms aren’t necessary because we are only a couple of hours from Tallinn. You will be back home. Tom is worried sick about you.”
She squirmed around to face him directly, gathering her strength. “I can’t wait to get there and be with him, Kyle, but that’s not why we need immediate communications.”
“Then what the hell are you talking about? Don’t play games.”
“World War Three, Kyle. World War Fuckin’ Three!” She looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. “Almost midnight. We have only got nine hours!”
Swanson struggled to stay steady on the wheel and not stomp the accelerator. Getting stopped for a traffic violation would be a disaster. The egress on a mission was critical. He kept his eyes on the road. Thankfully, there was not much traffic and in a moment, the Volvo was leaning through the traffic circle. “What happens at nine o’clock?”