Long Shot

5

The metal door set in a metal frame was the color of milk and had an electric lock. It opened only when a five-digit code was punched into a numeric pad on the outside. There was no knob inside the square fifteen-by-fifteen room. Kyle pushed through after a DSS agent tapped his security number, and the door opened with a dull thunk.

The Russian was on his feet, facing the door, as if some vibe had alerted him. The room was soundproof and the mirrored window was unbreakable. Audio and visual recorders were monitoring every sound and movement. Recessed fluorescent lights were behind metal grates in the white ceiling, while the floor was concrete, layered with a thick epoxy that would not chip. The walls were as thick as those of a castle.

“Hello, Gunny.” The voice was controlled and revealed no discomfort, despite what had to be a mental storm raging inside the defector’s brain.

“Hello, Ivan. Or should it be ‘Hello, Colonel Strakov’?” Then, in a calculated bit of tradecraft to break the ice, Swanson extended his hand and the GRU officer shook it. The grip was warm and dry, and the gaze was steady, giving no sign of nervousness. “It has been awhile, hasn’t it?”

The Russian officer’s face surrendered a bit of a smile that was more amusement than sincerity, for he knew how the game was played. He had interrogated many men and women, at times using what the Americans quaintly called enhanced techniques. Feigned friendship was also an effective ploy. Nevertheless, he was truly glad to see Swanson again. Not only did it mean the Americans had caved in to his first demand, but he really did hold a reluctant personal admiration for the sniper. “I am very pleased to see you again, Gunny.”

“Word has it that you are dead, Ivan.” Swanson moved to a chair and sat down. “A plane crashed in Lake Baikal, way the hell up in Siberia. Two people were aboard, you being one of them. That seems a little peculiar to me.”

Ivan replied with a line from a Robert Service poem about strange things being done in the land of the midnight sun.

“We have been here less than a minute, and already you’re spouting poetry. Screw that. Explain the crash.”

The Russian crossed his legs. “Yes, I had been scheduled to fly to Irkutsk for an inspection aboard a small military aircraft that most unfortunately crashed in Lake Baikal. At the last moment, I could not make the flight and therefore sent the plane on without me, telling the pilot I would catch up with him later. My name remained on the flight manifest, my schedule stated I was to be aboard, and there was a substantial amount of additional evidence to prove that I was going to that barren place. The trip had been a month in the planning. As you know, Baikal is the deepest freshwater lake in the world, more like an ocean, and when the plane went down, the wreckage sank without a trace. It was most unfortunate.”

“In other words, you set it up.”

“I required a bit of misdirection, Kyle. You appreciate that in evasion and escape. Without my GRU colleagues hunting me, it would be less difficult to travel in the opposite direction, say, for instance, to the American embassy in Helsinki.”

“You murdered the pilot.”

“That is merely a technical term. I needed it to serve the greater good. So what? What is your point, Sniper?”

Swanson looked steadily at the Russian. There was no need to get into the morality of killing, or arguing the finer points of death, on orders versus deliberate and personal. The colonel was in custody, across the table from him in a locked room and the only real question was: Why? Not the moment yet to ask that outright, Kyle decided, and changed the topic.

“Last time we were together, Ivan, you were just a punk sergeant in the naval infantry. Now you are a colonel. Tell me about that magic carpet of promotions.”

“That is thanks to you, Kyle. When you flunked me out of the program, you ended my career as a sniper and advised me to find some other way to serve my country. Within a few months, I had put down my rifle and volunteered for military intelligence. I did not have a college, but knew that I was pretty smart, Kyle, always good with numbers and computers and techie stuff. After a lot of testing, they discovered not only that I had an off-the-charts IQ, but that I also was an eidetiker, which means that my memory is almost photographic. They were so happy that they started me as a captain.”

Swanson was quiet for a moment, trying to reconcile the scatterbrained young Russian he had known with the certified genius he was interviewing. “Still, your age does not fit your rank, Ivan. That makes us think that there is something else going on with this so-called defection.” Strakov was a sergeant in his late twenties when they were on the range, but the official record had him graduating a few years later from the Moscow Military Institute of the Federal Security Service, coming out as a lieutenant colonel. Then the blank, dark years of his work within the GRU and back to school at the Academy of the General Staff, graduating as a full colonel. A general’s star was surely on the horizon. It reminded Kyle Swanson somewhat of his own recorded history, which painted a picture with a lot of parts missing.

The colonel shook his head. “There are official records and then there are nonofficial records; just as there are riflemen, so must there be fighters in higher ranks.” Ivan dodged the question with a stanza from “The Scythians”:

“So you became a spy. One more damned poem and I walk out.”

“No. I ran the spies.” Strakov shifted his position again. “Look, Kyle, all of this is unnecessary. The CIA is going to wring me dry, and I will spill my guts willingly. I hate what is happening to Russia, and it’s up to people like me to stop the slide in any way possible — including defecting to you guys.”

“You are still arrogant, Ivan. What makes you think you have anything that we don’t already know?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. There are two names with which everyone in the modern intelligence world is familiar — Wikileaks founder Julian Assange and your renegade NSA computer whiz Edward Snowden.” Strakov rose and took a few slow steps to face the big mirror, knowing that more Americans were watching from behind the glass. “That is the level on which I have come to play. I have spent several years planning this personal exodus, Kyle. You and your people should consider me a Snowden from the other side.” He smiled genially into the mirror and said, “I’m going to rock their world.”

Swanson got up and stretched, then took his time finding a place to lean against the thick wall. He was really happy that all of this was being recorded on video and audio. “Why me?”

The Moscow spymaster turned to face him, falling smoothly into a professorial mode. “The first step was to make my escape. That has been accomplished. Next I have to prove that I have information that is worthwhile.”

“You already gave up some material about some artillery regiment in the Ukraine, right? More of that kind of thing?”

The Russian began to slowly pace, with his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Not at all. That was nothing. Your satellites would have caught most of that anyway, eventually. No, I wanted Kyle Swanson because I need to send you out on a mission. That’s what I really trust; your ability to get the job done.”

Kyle barked a laugh. “You want to send me on a mission? No way.”

Strakov was unruffled and continued. “Oh, you will go. The people in the next room will make that a priority. Right now you are all convinced that I am real and alive, although listed as being dead. Now you will determine if my information has value.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“You take a quick trip, Kyle. Go south, into Finland’s little neighbor of Estonia, and conduct a surveillance of a certain place through your sniper eyes. Be as thorough as possible. Then you return and I will explain to you and a committee of experts what you saw. It will only take a few days and there should be no hostile opposition.”

“Well, Ivan, that won’t work.”

“Why not? It is a simple in-and-out.”

“I can’t return to Helsinki, even if I wanted to. I’m being expelled.”

“No matter. You Americans were going to ship me somewhere else anyway, right? Where?”

“A safe house, I would guess.” Swanson avoided a direct answer. “I don’t know any of the details.”

“Right now, they are thinking of putting me somewhere in Maryland or Virginia, a place that is handy to your intel agencies. They can forget that. I will need to be around Belgium or France.”

“You don’t get to pick and choose, Ivan. It may just be a dark hole on the hard side of Detroit.”

Strakov continued, as if Kyle had said nothing. “When you return from this mission in Estonia, I predict with great certainty that your people and a lot of others are going to want me close to NATO headquarters in Brussels. Nobody knows where Estonia is right now, Kyle, but in about six months, it will be on everyone’s map. There is a whisper of war in the air.”

“That’s not another poem, is it?”

“No,” replied Colonel Strakov. “It’s a promise. Take a powerful scope or binos up to the highest point you can reach in the big castle in the eastern border city of Narva in Estonia, and have a good hard look across the river into Russia. Then come back.”

“A castle in Estonia?” Kyle cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes. It was built in the thirteenth century. Now go up in the castle.” Then Ivan clammed up again.

Everyone agreed. This had all the ingredients of a terrific video game: A council of elders would decide whether to send a brave warrior on a quest to a spooky old castle in a faraway medieval land to find a magic sword held by a fearsome enemy and save the world. All that was needed was a princess and a dragon.

The elders, in real life, were the hierarchy of the U.S. Embassy staff in Helsinki, and an hour after Swanson spoke with Strakov they were gathered in a conference room. At the head of the oval table was Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary Mary Line, who had compiled an illustrious career as an academic and an athlete, and had even flown in space before becoming a political appointee. Her husband was chairman of a giant computer company and they were generous donors to the political party of the incumbent president. The previous year, she had ridden her bicycle some eight hundred miles around Finland.

“I don’t like this one little bit,” Mary Line said forcefully. “Sending a secret agent on a mission only on the word of a Russian spy will certainly antagonize Moscow!”

On her right was Jack Loran, the quiet career State Department Foreign Service officer who was deputy chief of mission, which made him the power behind the throne in times of crisis. He was the manager and the ambassador was the figurehead. “It is unusual,” he agreed.

Bob Carver, chief of the Diplomatic Security Service, was at the other end and feeling an ulcer bubbling in his belly. “Our first priority is to relocate Colonel Strakov before the Finns uncover what is going on. We have air transport available tonight, but need to decide where to send him. I vote for Washington.”

“He wants Brussels.” The ambassador reminded everyone.

“Screw what he wants, ma’am,” Carver shot back when she gave him a stare. “Sorry.”

Jack Loran looked over to CIA Station Chief Sandra Bentley, who said, “The people back in Langley have already made that decision, Madam Ambassador. The plane will leave for Paris tonight. Further arrangements will be made from there.”

Kyle Swanson liked the response. Sandi Bentley had been around the CIA for years and had earned her stripes in the field; she had run the stations in both Spain and New Zealand before coming to Helsinki. She guarded secrets carefully. She was courteous, but the ambassador did not need to know where Ivan was headed after he left Finland. Nor did she need to know where Kyle was going. He had nothing to add on that subject.

“And Agent Swanson will be leaving as soon as possible, too?” Ambassador Line was unhappy about all of these outsiders coming in and disturbing her orderly domain.

“Yes. He leaves tomorrow, too.” Bentley hardly looked up from her papers. The ambassador thought Swanson would fly straight back to Washington. The CIA station chief did not correct that erroneous conclusion.

“What do you recommend on the Russian’s request for Swanson to visit Narva, Sandi?” asked Loran.

“We’ll take care of that, too,” she replied. “You and the ambassador will have to officially log what has happened here, minute-by-minute, in case there is some future congressional investigation, Jack. Therefore, the State Department’s diplomatic involvement ends here, with the handover of the defector, and the CIA is putting a top-secret lid on all of it. Is that OK by you folks?”

“But…” the ambassador started to speak. She wanted to know more, but she looked over to her deputy chief of mission. Jack Loran gave a negative headshake and closed his folder. “That’s good.”

Swanson liked the decision. The CIA lied to the ambassador without actually doing so, and officially cut the State Department out of the loop.

The temperature rocketed down and the beautiful weather of Tuesday collapsed into a leftover winter day on Wednesday. The frozen air out of the north, a dump of overnight snow and the following gloomy gray sky beyond the hotel window matched Swanson’s mood even before he was intercepted in the lobby by Inspector Aura and Sergeant Kiuru from the Finland Security Intelligence Service. She was tapping his American passport on a forearm, burning restless energy, waiting for him.

“You were supposed to leave this morning, Mister Swanson. Surely you remember that?” She snapped the question.

“I am leaving, Inspector, even as we speak. If you step aside I will check out and be on my way.” He squared off to face her, tired of the pushiness.

“You did not make an airplane reservation.”

“That’s because I am not flying anywhere. If you would be so kind as to let me have my passport now, I will do the paperwork at the front desk and depart your lovely country. The ferry over to Estonia leaves in about an hour and I don’t have any more time to waste with you, as much as you enjoy jerking around a legitimate businessman.”

The eyes narrowed. “Why are you going to Estonia?”

“Because you are throwing me out of Finland.”

“No.” She held the passport like a lifeline and glared. “What is the reason?”

Swanson offered his palm for it. “I had a sudden urge to visit the old family farm and some distant relatives, and maybe do some business that I had considered doing in Finland. Estonia is a forward-leaning country. That’s where Skype was invented, you know, and Excalibur Enterprises is heavy into technology.”

She puffed out her lips in exasperation. “Do you even speak Estonian, Mister Swanson?”

“Of course. It is a beautiful tongue.”

“You are such a terrible liar.”

“And you are boring me. Arrest me or give me my passport and get out of my way. Good-bye, Inspector Aura.”

DSS Special Agent Lem James was waiting behind the wheel of his personal car, the motor running to keep the heater going. Kyle climbed into the front while a bellman packed his luggage into the trunk. “Did you have another pleasant meeting in there with my pal Rikka?”

“You didn’t tell her about my taking the ferry over to Tallinn, did you?”

James laughed so hard that his body quaked. “No, of course not. Make her work a little bit, you know?”

“She is arrogant and stubborn.”

“She says the same about you.” James handed Kyle his boat tickets and other paperwork, slipped the car into gear, and they drove away along the freshly plowed streets to Tyynenmerenkatu 8, the sprawling West Terminal used by the boats of the Tallink & Silja Line. Swanson noticed that although it was freezing outside, the Finns were going about their business pretty much as they had done the previous day in the sunshine. They knew how to live with weather.

“You take care of yourself over there, Swanson. One of your people, a trade attaché at the American embassy, will meet you on the other side.”

“Couldn’t I just rent a car and drive to this castle?”

“Trust me, pal. You need a guide in this strange territory. You don’t speak Estonian, do you?”

“Not a word.”

“It sounds a lot like gargling mouthwash while yodeling. Your best bet is to remember this one phrase: ma ei räägi eesti keelt—it means ‘I don’t speak Estonian.’”

“Oh, boy.” Kyle muttered the strange words. Not a chance that he could remember that.

“Yeah,” said James. He scribbled a private telephone number on a business card and gave it to Kyle. “Good luck. I’m off this case officially as of yesterday, so I’m just acting as a friend. Call me if I can help. Otherwise, I’ll see you when I see you.”