“Too bad. Now he can’t answer questions.”
Her brows furled some as she gave him a look of consternation. “Do you feel nothing of this man’s death?”
“It’s unfortunate,” Karl said. “But I prefer that to the alternative — like the death of you or me.”
“You’re right, obviously. It’s just that I’ve never killed someone before.”
“You still haven’t, Hanna. Hopefully, you will never have to do so.”
She nodded her head in agreement and then started the SUV engine. As the vehicle warmed, she tapped the screen on the console, bringing up the GPS. Then she typed in an address and the GPS traced a route to drive, showing the location as seven kilometers away.
“What is that location?” Karl asked.
“Our people tracked down the vehicle that smashed into us last night,” she said.
Karl swished his hands together and said, “Cool. Let’s get them.”
“No. We are only allowed to observe them.”
“They tried to kill us last night,” Karl reminded her.
“I know. But we have no idea of their intent or their numbers.”
“Their intent was obvious,” Karl said. “They wanted to kill us. What am I missing?”
“This is not America,” she said. “We have a difficult relationship with Russia. They are neighbors and can make a lot of problems for us.”
She had a good point. He would be gone by this afternoon, and she would have to deal with them beyond that. “I understand.” Besides, he didn’t have permission from the Agency to engage the Russians.
Hanna drove them to the location of the vehicle, which was in a neighborhood much like her own. That was a problem, because the SUV sat out front on the road between two rows of apartment buildings.
“How many options for their location?” Karl asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe four on each side of the road. We might be here for a while.”
“My flight is at five this evening.”
“I will get you there in time.”
He wasn’t sure what they could accomplish here, other than to expose himself further as an intelligence operative to the Russians. Truthfully, he should just lay low and get the hell out of Dodge. But he understood why the Finns would want to locate a Russian intelligence safe house in their city. SUPO had helped him last night by delivering a new passport and money to him, so this was the least he could do to reciprocate.
Karl got on his SAT phone and sent a quick text to his contact in the Agency, along with the address he could read on the side of the building where the SUV was parked. It took Roddy just ten minutes to get back with him.
Reading the incoming text, Karl said, “I had my people check out the various units in this complex and got the names of the residents.”
Hanna looked concerned. “That is not easy to get. How?”
“Don’t ask.” Karl read off the names to her.
“Wait. Jokinen is a famous hockey player.”
“Isn’t that a popular name in Finland?”
“Yes, of course. But his first name is not. But he would not live here.” Now she pulled up her phone and called her office asking for a background on this Jokinen living at the address on this block. She nodded a couple of times and smiled before tapping off. Then she said to Karl, “As I thought, it’s a fake name. That’s the Russians. It has to be.”
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we wait.”
Waiting wasn’t in Karl’s DNA, he was sure of that. But they didn’t have to wait long. Perhaps forty-five minutes.
The man who had picked them up the night before came to their vehicle to talk with Hanna through the driver’s window. Again, Karl didn’t understand a word. But he did get the gist of the conversation. Once the man walked away, Hanna powered the window up and started the engine.
“What’s up?” he asked her.
Without answering, she turned the vehicle down a side street and drove away slowly. Karl glanced back and saw a number of vehicles pull up to the apartment building.
Finally, she said, “A team will take them into custody. Then we will have to let them go.”
Such was the nature of the game.
Hanna drove Karl around the rest of the day, like a tour guide showing her city to a high-end client. They ate lunch at her favorite restaurant on the frozen shore of the Gulf of Finland. Shortly after they finished eating, she drove him to the airport and dropped him off out front — the only remnants of their brief encounter a few temporary cuts and bruises and a parting hug. Maybe that’s how life was, he guessed.
11
The Russian cargo ship Magadan cruised at fourteen knots through rough swells, the darkness of early evening obscuring the view from the bridge of nearly anything. Clouds above made sure of that.
Merchant ship captain Viktor Drugov was on edge. His first officer went missing just after they got underway, and Viktor had been forced to elevate his second officer, Dmitri Vladimirovich Samsonov, to that position. This was a man that he did not trust. A man that had been forced on him by his government.
Viktor had just cleared the bridge of the pilot so he could speak with his new first officer in private. The ship was now on autopilot, and Viktor suspected that someday soon in the future they would not even need a human crew to run these ships. But that wouldn’t happen until after he was retired and dead. At least he hoped so. Yet, what about his younger crew members? What would happen to the proud tradition of seamen? These were questions for future governments. Now he just had to make sure his cargo reached the port on time. Perhaps that was a problem as well. His official cargo was not a concern, but the military package was not something he had counted on until the last minute. That’s the biggest reason he didn’t trust his new first officer. During the days of the Soviet Union, each ship had a political officer. That person was KGB. Everyone knew it, but nobody spoke of that fact. These officers had one real job — keep the men in line and complying with the Communist Party. Those with ideas of defection would be dealt with harshly. Usually with a bullet in the back of the head. Or, perhaps worse, they would simply disappear. Viktor couldn’t help thinking that this was the fate of his former first officer.
The captain glanced at the large GPS screen and saw in the distance the Faroe Islands to the southeast and Iceland to the southwest.
Dmitri Samsonov entered the bridge wearing not the uniform of the merchant marine, but a dark peacoat and a black fur Ushanka hat. The only thing missing from the hat was the old Soviet emblem with the gold leaf, red star and hammer and sickle. With no deference whatsoever, the first officer took a seat in one of the leather bridge seats. He pulled out a cigar and nearly lit it. Then he smiled and returned the cigar to an inside pocket.
“You wanted to see me, captain?” Samsonov asked.
Viktor tightened his jaw and said, “Yes. Our men have done a thorough search of the ship and have found no trace of Pushkin.”
“I’m aware of that, Viktor,” the first officer said. “Since I was in charge of the search. What is your point?”
The captain pointed at Samsonov. “I have known men like you. I am the captain of this ship, and you will respect my position.”
Samsonov got up from his chair like a lion pouncing on a gazelle, his own finger pointing at the captain’s chest. “I respect the man, not the position. You will remember that you can be replaced.”
Viktor brushed away the man’s hand. “I work for the company at their pleasure. We all do. Unless you know something that I don’t.”
“I am sure of that… captain. But I don’t think I have to remind you of our special cargo.”