Long Shot

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?”

“Oh, no, my dear. Not at all. No. As far as what has happened between us, yes, it was quite special. I didn’t know I had the strength in me.”

She reached out and pulled his head to her for another kiss. “I knew it all along. From the minute I first met you, I knew that you were an extraordinary man, General Ravensdale.”

His eyes showed a flash of inner confusion. “Still, you turned me into a traitor.”

Arial threw the sheet aside and lay there naked. “I did nothing of the kind, Freddie. I was sent to collect a debt that you incurred a long time ago. You have not been asked to do anything other than support events that were inevitable.”

“I told you about the CIA spy, Calico. I should not have done so.”

She laughed brightly. “And that is a minor point, darling. First, Mrs. Hollings is not British, so you did not betray your country. Second, the FSB seemed to know her identity already. They did not act at all surprised, nor follow up with any questions for me.”

“What will be done to her?”

“Why, nothing! Why should it? Calico is much too valuable to hurt.” Arial’s deep eyes searched for weaknesses. “That’s not really why you are worried, is it?”

“You believed Moscow would leave me alone in exchange for the information about Calico. Now, with this promotion, I will be squarely in the middle of the Arctic offensive. Will they still pressure me?”

Arial rose from the bed and slid her arms through a creamy silk kimono, then stood directly before him, between his knees. She did not close the robe. “I will see to it that they live up to the bargain, Freddie. Anyway, Moscow would only want you to command aggressively, as you have always done. Do not start feeling guilty again, or I shall have to punish you severely.” Her breasts were soft against his cheeks.

“If you will not move to London, will you at least come to visit?” He peered up at her, breathing her fragrance. Something long forgotten had awakened within Ravensdale. It could not be love, for he had hated her, and such strong, opposite emotions were impossible. Or were they?

“I often get over to the UK. It’s right across the channel by air, train or automobile, you know.”

“You will come and see me, then. Promise me that. We shall remain discreet.”

“Of course. Now you go home, get into that pretty uniform and go do your duty, whatever it is that you generals do. I am so happy for you.”

A final kiss and he was out the door. Arial poured a drink of whiskey and padded barefoot to the tall window and gazed out at the city, the robe still open and her not caring if anyone was watching. It was early in the morning, and the morning chill made her nipples stiffen, so she closed the curtains. Smiling to herself, the heiress went to the entertainment cabinet that dominated the far side of the bedroom and was stacked with video and audio gear below a large flat television screen. It was so obvious that Ravensdale had never even questioned its presence. It was just a stereo and a TV. The setup actually did provide cable television, entertainment and music on demand, but it also worked in the opposite direction by recording everything that happened in the room. She snapped it off and proceeded to the bathroom to fill the hexagonal Jacuzzi tub and added a full packet of bubble bath crystals. As she sank into the warm foam, she congratulated herself.

She had told him Moscow would have no interest in him if he became a lowly goose farmer or beekeeper, but now the general was assuming an even more important post. There was no plan behind that; it was an unexpected bonus. Of course she would meet him in London, and just as surely, she would be carrying new orders.

A little kindness, a lot of flattery and an energetic roll in the bed were invisible hooks that had sunk deeply into the man. She owned him now more than ever before. The same formula that had left him befuddled so many years ago with the agent known as Lorette had been duplicated, and he did not even realize it was happening. Some men, whether government officials, prelates, money men, athletes… or generals… never learn.

Colonel Thomas Markey, for one of the few times in his exceptionally organized life, was totally at a loss for what to do by the time Kyle Swanson arrived at his home. Several other people were already there, including a woman who was stacking fresh groceries in the cupboard. The somber look and awkward silence reminded Swanson of a funeral. There was coffee on a side table, alongside a stack of gooey pastries. He expected a green bean casserole might soon be brought over by a sympathetic neighbor.

That would not be the case, because this was no ordinary mourning. The report that Jan Hollings Markey had vanished without a trace was a tightly held matter. Everyone in the neat house was either NATO or CIA, and agents were posted around the neighborhood to keep watch beneath the overcast sky. Swanson had been admitted by a guard just inside the front door only after showing his credentials. The house was cold.

Markey nervously toyed with a rubber band wrapped around his fingers. His face was lined with worry and his eyes were damp. He looked pale and listless, but got up when Kyle came into the room. “Anything yet?”

“No, Tom. I’m sure these guys will keep you up to date as soon as they hear. You probably know more than I do at this point.”

The colonel wore old jeans and a tattered gray sweatshirt with WEST POINT across the chest. He absently picked at the rubber band. Swanson took him by the elbow and guided him to a corner so they could speak quietly.

“Let me cut to the chase, Tom. The Agency has assigned me to find her. Gloves are off. Do whatever is necessary to bring her back. Do you know anything that might help me?”

Markey shook his head, staring into the dark fireplace where only a few charred sticks remained. “No, dammit. I have gone over and over this thing in my head. We were going to meet here last night, after she finished in Narva and before I had to get back to Brussels. There was no earlier indication that anything was wrong. Did you hear that the asshole Strakov wants to undefect?”

“Fuck him,” Swanson said in a low voice. “He’s somebody else’s problem now. You concentrate on Jan.”

“I’ve got to finish my report on the interview.” The man was jittery, perhaps just looking for something to keep his mind busy and to make him think about anything other than his missing bride. That was impossible, and awful scenarios marched through his mind.

“Get hold of yourself, Tom. Stay strong, and if you think of, or hear, anything that might help me, tell these people to contact me immediately. The official investigation is going to kick in soon and you will be swamped with investigators. I want to stay ahead of all of that. Do not tell anyone what I am up to. Should they ask, just say we’re old friends and I came by to see how you were doing.”

A smile crept across the colonel’s haggard face. “Kyle, you work for the CIA. They know what you’re up to, what you are capable of doing.”

“Not really,” Swanson said with a return grin.

The new mayor of Narva was a pudgy, well-mannered man with a full head of silver hair and a Hero of the Soviet Union medal pinned to the pocket of his neat blue suit. He had spent his teenage years fighting the fascists in the Great Patriotic War, and became a superior communist in the process. During his middle years, he continued the struggle against the imperialists of the West, and as he entered the second half of his life, watched in dismay as the Soviet Union fell apart. He understood economics and how the combined Western nations had crippled the socialist countries with ruinous sanctions. They accumulated wealth while making certain that the poorer East, ravaged by war like no other region, remained that way.

So it was with a satisfying sense of revenge that Konstantin Pran stepped up to take his oath of office at one o’clock in the afternoon on Monday, April 18. He was a common workingman who had earned success in business, unpolished but smart, and considered himself totally unlike that elitist lawyer Brokk Mihailovich, who wanted to turn Estonia into California. Pran was not sad that Mihailovich had vanished, for he always thought the man to be weak and untested on the battlefield, and a quitter. Pran had a different dream.

The citizens had turned out for his speech, and he made it short. He announced that Narva would adhere to the traditions that had made Estonia great, and that this victory would lead to new success for the Workers’ Party across the country — in Tartu, Viljandi, Pärnu and even in the capital, Tallinn. Estonia would remain beneath the protective wing of Mother Russia while meeting the challenges of the twenty-first century.

NATO, he promised, would eventually be forced to leave the country on the path chosen by its residents. NATO had to go! He offered as proof that the organization of Western nations was duplicitous and dangerous as shown by the fact that the United States Central Intelligence Agency had attempted to interfere with the city’s free and open elections. He let that charge linger for a moment. The mayor slowly announced this was not just political bombast: A CIA spy named Janice Hollings had been arrested by Narva police while she was trying to escape, as per an instruction from Russian intelligence officers. She was in custody at this very moment at the Town Hall and would be turned over to appropriate authorities, but not to the Americans or the nationalist Estonians. No, he said, the spy would be surrendered only to representatives who would arrive from Moscow tomorrow.

Kyle Swanson was by now familiar with the road to Narva and he charged over it aboard a matte-black Kawasaki KX450F, a mean little rice-burner of a dirt bike. Not much to look at, but with its 449cc four-stroke engine, the damned thing could climb a wall. He had paid $8,700 cash at a dealer in Tallinn and drove it off the showroom floor and onto the highway, and not long thereafter, rolled into Narva with a backpack full of tricks and the deadeyed look of someone who is beyond caring about what he does, as if life itself was a fuzzy and meaningless mirage. By the time he reached the traffic circle, a plan had formed.

The last time he was in the city, he had the luxury of Anneli as a guide and translator. Since he still had no idea of what the people were saying, he needed language help but did not want to be obvious about getting it. With the Kawasaki parked and locked, he drifted into St. Peter’s Square, where a big political rally was under way. He looked around, saw the TV cameras, and made his way to the press area. Flashing his false press pass as freelancer Simon Brown from Toronto, he was allowed into the cordoned-off media section.

Four cameras were on tripods and pointing at a fat little old man with white hair up on a stage.

“Excuse me,” he said to a woman writing in a notebook. “I’m Simon Brown, Canada, and I just got here. Who’s that?” He smiled at her, but she was concentrating. The credentials around her neck stated in bold letters that she was with Sky News. Obviously an English-speaker.

“That’s the mayor,” she said, somewhat waspishly, not really wanting to share information with a competitor. “Konstantin Pran.”

Then she looked up and saw a rugged, handsome guy with gray-green eyes smiling at her. Obviously a print guy, so no real competition. “I’m Marian Mansfield, Sky.”

“Mind if I hang out with you guys for a little while? This guy saying anything interesting?”

“Damned if I know. Who understands this language?” She pointed to a young man nearby. “That’s our translator. He feeds me tidbits while making a transcript that I can review later.”

“Maybe you can do your review over a drink at the German Pub?”

Marian unconsciously brushed at her dark hair. She was interested. “Sure.” The press liked to huddle together in foreign lands, particularly when they flew in for a single story like this border town voting in a bunch of antiquated hard-line old commies. Simon Brown looked more interesting than the mayor.

“Oh, shit!” The translator burst out, “Marian! He says they caught a CIA spy who was messing with the elections! She’s being held in a cell at the Town Hall.”

The reporter’s eyes lit up as if jolted by a burst of electricity, and she drew her telephone from her pocket like a six-shooter. “Well, that changed things in a hurry,” she said. “I’ll go on the air with this as soon as they can set it up. Raincheck on that beer? Simon, is it?”

“Yeah, you gotta work. The pub is on Malmi Street if you get a chance later on. Good luck.” Around them, the other camera crews had also sprung to alert. Kyle backed away and was immediately dismissed from the thoughts of Marian Mansfield. He went back to his motorcycle and threaded carefully to a new vantage point. He had gotten what he needed.