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“A Norwegian with a sense of humor?”

Kjersti smacked him in the arm, much like Anna would do to him more than he liked.

“Hey,” Jake said. “What they give you?”

“Some food in the box, and some weapons and ammo in the flight bag.”

“How’d you convince them we needed that?”

“I gave the commander a blow job.”

Jake smiled.

“I’m kidding.” Pause. “Anna did it.”

“I did what?” Anna said, leaning forward.

“Nothing,” Jake said. “Can we get the hell outta here?”

Moments later Kjersti had the helo revved up, four-bladed rotors cranking, and they lifted off the deck. She powered the Bell 407 to maximum power and the craft rose to four thousand feet before leveling off and cruising due south toward the Norwegian mainland. Even at that maximum speed of 148 mph at that elevation, they would still have a range over 300 miles, and their destination, Tromso, Norway, was a little more than 200 miles away. They would be there by dinner.

“What you tell the coast guard commander?” Jake asked Kjersti through the headset.

“Told him NIS was working with the Agency chasing down some terrorists trying to ferry through our country. Said they had gone from Russia to Svalbard and were heading toward the mainland. We needed fuel to intercept.”

“Good thinking.”

She smiled but kept her eyes on the horizon. “It wasn’t too hard to convince him, considering all the bullet holes in the side of my helo. Where do you think that other helo went?”

He wished he knew. “I don’t know. But I get the feeling we haven’t seen the last of them.”

“Why don’t you go back and get some rest,” she said. “I’ll have us in to Tromso in less than two hours.”

Jake didn’t answer, but he did crawl back from the cockpit to be with Anna. She was laying down on her sleeping bag, headphones on and, no doubt, listing to techno. So Jake unzipped the flight bag to see what the Norwegian Coast Guard had given them. First he pulled out an HK MP5 submachine gun. He cycled the bolt and dropped the magazine. Nice. Then he found three Walther P99 automatic handguns, all in 9mm, in military spec with 16-round magazines. With all weapons in 9mm that would make it easy, not having to mess with different calibers. Since they were all German guns, he and Anna were quite familiar with all of them — even though she usually used Austrian Glocks and Steyrs. He spent some time loading each magazine with the 9mm rounds. When he was done, he lay down onto his sleeping bag next to Anna and wrapped his arm around her. Now he could rest.

14

Oslo, Norway

Colonel Reed walked out onto the sidewalk in front of the arrivals area of Oslo International Airport and glanced at the taxis and buses lining the curb. He had told his Russian friend to meet him at precisely seventeen hundred. He checked his watch and saw that it was two minutes before that hour. He didn’t entirely trust the Russian. How could he? At one time they had been fierce Cold War enemies. But he guessed the lack of trust went both ways. However, sometimes it was better to know your enemy instead of getting stabbed in the back by someone you thought was a friend.

Just then the black rental BMW, the one he had rented for two weeks on his last visit to convince Jake Adams to fly to Svalbard, came rolling to the curb in front of him — the Russian at the wheel and not looking too happy. Reed guessed the man was used to having his own driver in Russia. At least during the last few years of his government employment.

The colonel threw his three-day bag in the back seat and climbed into the front, settling into the plush leather seat.

The Russian pulled away from the arrivals area, his eyes concentrating on the road, and his ubiquitous mini-cigar hanging from the right side of his mouth. Neither said a word for a couple minutes.

Finally, the Russian said, “How was that little troll in Stockholm?”

Colonel Reed shook his head. “He calls himself Oberon now.”

The Russian laughed. “We used to call him little Stalin. You know what Oberon means?”

The colonel shook his head.

“King of the Fairies.”

“You mean like…” Colonel Reed flapped a limp wrist toward the driver.

“The other one. At least traditionally.”

“Magical and fantastical.”

“Right.”

Leaning back in his seat, the colonel thought about what Jake had told him. About being shot at in Spitsbergen.

“By your silence, I’m guessing your man found the box at the crash site.” The Russian sucked in and blew out smoke almost simultaneously.

“He was nearly killed,” Reed said.

“Wasn’t my guys.”

Since the International Airport was nearly forty miles north of Oslo, it took them a while to get to the city. Now they drove toward downtown Oslo, the traffic lighter than normal for that time of day. The colonel had been in deep thought for much of the drive, observing the plush green hills, neither saying a word for miles.

Finally, the Russian asked, “Does he know what’s inside the box?”

Colonel Reed hesitated. But not too long. “I told him.”

“Good. Then he’ll be damn careful with it. I got you your same hotel. Fourth floor. Street view, just like you asked.”

“You’d make a good travel agent,” Colonel Reed said.

“Don’t need them any more with the internet.”

Good point. “If you’re going to smoke those things in my car, at least give me one.”

The Russian reached inside his jacket, pulled out the little box of cigars, tapped the bottom on the shifter, bringing one out, and the colonel took it from him. He lit it with the car lighter and puffed hard to get the smoke rolling into his lungs. The colonel liked a cigar from time to time, but only when a mission was accomplished. He guessed this one was far from over.

* * *

Toni Contardo stepped down out of the U.S. Air Force Gulfstream jet and collected her bag from a staff sergeant dressed in civilian clothes. The flight from Camp Springs, Maryland to Oslo included a refueling stop in Reykjavik, Iceland. She had not been able to sleep much of the trip, her mind drifting back to images of her and Jake Adams through the years. They had once been so close. And that also bothered her, because she had used their love-making as a barometer for subsequent affairs, and none had met that intensity, the same depth — including her recent marriage. Yet, she was happy, she kept telling herself.

A rental car waited for her on the tarmac, a charcoal BMW 5-series. A man sat in the passenger seat. A man who looked just out of college. Slight build, but chiseled features. Great. Babysitting. She set her bag into the trunk and got in behind the wheel.

“Thom Hagen,” the young man said, reaching his hand to Toni. “Norwegian Intelligence Service.”

She left his hand there for a moment before squeezing down hard on him. “Toni,” she said. “Are you my tour guide?”

He didn’t say anything, searching for his thoughts and trying to shake some life back into his hand.

She didn’t wait for him. “So NIS is pulling from the middle schools now?” She cranked over the car and pulled away, squealing the tires and planting the man back into his chair.

Finding her way out of the airport, they drove for a while in silence.

“I’m twenty-nine,” the NIS officer said. “Four years in Army Intelligence in NATO units in Mid-East wars, before joining NIS.”

Toni shook her head and said, “I read your file on the flight.”

“Really?”

“I don’t work with just anyone,” she assured him. “I demand professionalism and expertise with weapons. I will not baby-sit anyone. So if you want your hand held or your dick serviced, you can go elsewhere.”