Long Shot

6

The big white ferry trimmed in lime green stripes rode ten decks tall and loaded more than two thousand passengers for the two-hour journey out of Helsinki, across the Baltic Sea to Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. Unmelted blocks of ice still bobbed in the cold water. A helicopter would have been much quicker, but the chopper service did not awaken from its winter season until May, more than three weeks away. Swanson went up to the plush business lounge on the sixth deck, and from the windows, looked down at the terminal and saw Lem James standing beside Inspector Aura and her sergeant, all of them waiting for the boat to shove off and take Kyle away from Finland.

He opened his laptop PC and logged in, surfing the Net for nothing in particular. He e-mailed Janna Ecklund back in Washington to say he was taking a ferry to Estonia and would be available by e-mail or cell phone. Messaged that he would be back in the States in a few days, anything to keep the surfing going and the Wi-Fi connection alive. There was no doubt that he was being electronically tracked, so he wanted to make it easy for the snoopers to confirm his exact position. The boat finished filling with passengers, cargo and vehicles, the powerful engines began to turn and the crew tossed the ropes. It headed away from the pier right on time. Kyle put on his heavy black wool coat and went outside on the rear deck to give Inspector Aura one last confirmation sighting. It was very cold, and he pulled up his collar. He saw Lem James and waved. The agent pointed and the inspector took a picture. He stayed out there until the vessel was on open water and the cold wind increased in velocity.

Back inside, he drank hot chocolate for warmth, shut down the laptop and read a few newspapers to help the minutes pass. The vibration of the ship was felt in his bones. He watched for faces, for followers, but spotted no one on his tail. As everybody involved now knew, and the GPS coordinates confirmed, Kyle Swanson was exactly where he was supposed to be, right on schedule, and responsible people were waiting at the other end of the short voyage to put a new leash on his collar. They would be comforted by that certainty. Excellent, Swanson thought. It was time to change the rules.

There were one hundred eighty-five private cabins on the ship, and he had a ticket for one of the ninety-two rooms that had views of the water from large, curtained portholes. He hurried up one flight to Deck Seven. The room was large, by ferry standards, had a private shower and could handle up to four people with ease, or one rich American like himself. The luggage was lined neatly in one corner. He opened a medium bag that contained neat partitions for pairs of shoes, and one space for the bag of used underwear. He removed the footwear and the dirty clothes, disarmed the security device and popped the false bottom.

Everything he needed was in there, including cellophane-wrapped bricks of $10,000 in U.S. currency. He took one, closed the case, set the alarm and returned to the business lounge. A foreign money exchange sign showed that one American dollar was worth about one and one-quarter European Euros, so he exchanged $5,000 for €3,996 plus change, minus a small transaction fee. The clerk at the banking facility in the elite Business Class section did not bat an eye at the amount. On the way back to his cabin, Kyle made another trip outside and, once on the frigid deck, he pulled the memory card from his cell phone and dropped both devices overboard. They splashed into the ferry’s turbulent wake and sank.

Back inside, Swanson descended all the way down to the bottom, where hundreds of vehicles were solidly chained into long rows, orderly and tight, bumper to bumper, side by side. The vehicles rocked on their springs in rhythm with the waves pounding the steel hull. Passengers were not allowed on this deck during the voyage, but from a catwalk above, Kyle examined the space, uninterested in the colorful lines of over-the-road trucks, sedans and sports utility vehicles. On the port side near the bow, a section was given over to about a half-dozen motorcycles, packed in tightly and also secured. From there, as soon as the ramp was lowered, the bikes would be allowed to buzz off first to get them out of the way of the larger traffic. He gave his silent approval. He could do business there.

Back in his cabin, he called for the steward, who was an English-speaking youngster named Matias, wearing a uniform tunic with the ship’s logo. A deal was made for when the boat docked in Estonia. The kid was to personally load the luggage into a taxi and deliver it to the Radisson Blu Sky Hotel and leave it with the concierge there, on hold for the arrival of Kyle Swanson of Excalibur Enterprises, who had a reservation. A bonus if Matias could track down the owner of the sleek black BMW R nineT motorcycle that was presently tied down on the vehicle deck. The boy agreed.

Kyle shucked out of his business suit and put it on a hangar in the folding bag. He would dress for a ride in cold weather, and no cotton garments would be able to wick away the sweat. The resulting sheen of moisture on the skin would pull away body warmth. He had to layer up. First came the soft, synthetic boxers and T-shirt and socks, and over that he slid a set of long thermal underwear. He finished with old jeans and a black T-shirt, and a pair of good boots. That was not nearly good enough for a long ride on a cold road, but it formed a good building block.

Digging in the hidden stash again, Swanson removed a set of fake hair additions and, using a bit of spirit gum as adhesive, affixed a thick brown mustache above his lip, smoothing it straight with his fingertips. His hair would not require a wig. Unfolding a backpack, he put in most of the cash, a notepad and pens, several fake press passes that showed he was Canadian journalist Simon Brown and a Visa card. Neatly arranged at the bottom of the case was a blanket, a rain suit, the monocular and a pencil-thin flashlight. Finally, he shook out a loose gray hoodie that covered a clip holster containing a Beretta Px4 Storm Compact handgun along with a spare clip of 9mm ammo. He closed up the suitcases again, leaving the laptop inside one of them.

Kyle breathed easier. In a few minutes, he would be off the grid.

Bikers hang together like leathery birds on a wire. No matter what type of machine they ride, they speak in the code of the road about how it is to ride through a world that is unknown to normal motorists; a magical path of wind in the hair and bugs on the teeth and death just a patch of loose gravel away. Matias, the steward, had furnished a name for the BMW owner and Swanson prowled the lounges until he found a group dressed mostly in black leather, with a scattering of helmets on the tables.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Andre Parl,” he said. The conversation stopped as the riders gave him a once-over. With the boots, jeans and hoodie, he was deemed acceptable.

“Why do you want Andre?” asked a man whose belly pushed at his belt. He had a thick, unkempt beard.

“I want to talk about his bike,” Swanson replied, and took a seat in their circle without waiting for an invitation.

“What? That Beemer? It’s an expensive pile of junk.”

“Hey. My bike is just fine. I can run that candy-ass Harley of yours into a ditch.” He looked at Kyle. “I’m Andre Parl, and my R-ninety is not for sale.”

Swanson looked him over. Black leather bib overalls were unhooked at the chest and folded down, and unzipped at the ankles to show thick socks and long underwear. The jacket hung over the back of his chair and the scratched helmet was underneath. His fingernails were crescents of dirt and grease.

“Let’s talk in private,” Swanson replied, motioning to a corner table. They made the move.

“My motorcycle is not for sale,” Parl said again. “I bought it new, and it cost me more than fourteen thousand dollars U.S. I’m still paying it off! I maintain it myself and I know every screw in it. It is my baby.”

“How much?” Swanson had an easy smile, because he knew that everything had a price and for him, today, money was no object. The maintenance comment by the owner meant the kid knew his machine, and the bike was probably as good as it looked.

“Why do you want my bike? Why not get that fancy-pants Gold Wing? Old man like you needs comfort.” His English had a strong accent that Kyle pegged as being some sort of Scandinavian.

“Ten thousand cash, right now.”

The young wrench-banger scoffed. “You are not even in the right range, Mister. Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Kyle Swanson and I am a businessman with a very generous expense account. I need those wheels because I may need to take it off road. The Gold Wing can’t do that. How much?”

Andre Parl cocked his head to one side. The man was serious, but the bike was valuable. “Twenty thousand dollars,” he said.

Swanson did not even wince. Instead, he countered with an offer to lease it. “Thirty-five hundred for three days, and you throw in your leathers and helmet.”

When Parl hesitated, Kyle added, “Plus, you get your bike back in three days and keep the money.”

“You want to rent my bike for a thousand a day?”

“Yes, and with a written agreement that gives me legal possession in case I’m stopped. Three days from now, you will find it parked in the Radisson Blu Sky Hotel garage here in Tallinn, and the key will be waiting in your name at the front desk. If not, my company will pay your twenty-thousand asking price.” He handed over an Excalibur Enterprises business card.

The biker exhaled. Money was falling on him. The business card looked legitimate and Kyle took him back up to the business center so he could call London and verify the identity. Parl was impressed. The stranger really was a vice president. “Deal,” he said. “You can have the helmet, but not the leathers; I’m not wearing pants beneath.”

“Good enough,” said Kyle. He pulled out a paper he had printed up earlier in the business center, filled in the numbers, counted out the cash and both he and Parl signed.

They returned to the biker bunch with fresh cups of coffee. “I’ve got to take a long ride when we dock and this shit will freeze me to death,” Kyle said, slapping the denim jeans. “So I’m in the market. Top prices, no questions, for heavy outer and warming gear; anything you can spare.” The roads would still have a few patches of snow, and icy bridges, but hypothermia would be his greatest enemy.

Swanson did a brisk business after the others learned that he had persuaded Parl to lease out his beloved machine, for that made him part of the two-wheeled brotherhood. When he asked them to forget that they had ever seen him, because of a police situation, they all smiled. No problem.

The ship’s announcement came for drivers to return to their cars and prepare to dock in Tallinn and the bikers trooped down together, popped open their saddlebags and outfitted their new friend with everything he needed, including sealed heat packs. An insulated sleeping bag was lashed behind the seat. He paid their outrageous prices without question. Andre Parl gave him five minutes of instruction on the tendencies and peculiarities of the R nineT.

Finally, Kyle slid a black neoprene neck-protecting gaiter into place over his neck, chin and mouth, pulled on the scraped black helmet and lowered the goggles, tightened the backpack straps, then fitted his hands into gauntlet-style gloves. He was ready.

The bow door opened and the ramp went down.

Swanson was fifth in the line of motorcycles that moved carefully down the ramp, and he was also going slowly to get the feel of the bike between his knees. The big 1170 cc engine, tuned to perfection, ejected a deep mumble from the short exhaust pipes.

When his wheels touched the solid pier, the BMW steadied, and he took a moment to glance around, confident that he could not be recognized under the layers of garments that covered him from head to toe. In a group of greeters at one side stood a woman in a long black coat, probably his CIA escort, holding a white sign that read: SWANSON. At her side was a bird colonel of the U.S. Army. Kyle twisted the handle throttle and rode away rumbling, thinking: Why didn’t they just put it up in neon? Let everybody know that the American special agent was coming in. The pair kept their eyes on the gangway, searching among the disembarking passengers for a single man in a dark suit and overcoat. They knew he had no car.

One of Swanson’s biker friends led him through the labyrinth of port streets, then around a few corners and pointed to the entrance for a multilane highway, the E-20, which would take him from the red roofs of Tallinn’s Old Town for 122 miles, all the way over to Narva, on the Russian border. Kyle waved a casual good-bye, then sped up with a twist of the throttle, merged into the traffic heading east out of the capital city and was immediately cruising at the speed limit of 110 kilometers per hour. The motorcycle strained at the slow pace, for BMW’s brilliant engineers had not crafted this machine to go only 70 miles per hour. When traffic thinned, and the roads were totally dry, Kyle cranked it up to 90, and settled in for a few minutes before cutting back to 75. That speed would not attract the attention of police, since he would not be slicing through traffic at high velocity. Drawing the attention of a traffic cop was the last thing he wanted.

Swanson was alone now, trusting only his instincts and training. The unusual mission that started in Rome had been off-kilter from the start. He didn’t know why. The Italian hit had been meticulously planned far in advance and in total secrecy, with the corresponding successful result. The follow-up step was to take out another ISIS murderer, again behind hours of precise planning and backup. That operation was as black as a coal mine, the sort of consistent professionalism that he liked about the clandestine operations of the CIA. A blue Audi loomed in front of him, and Swanson swept around it, then returned to the slow lane.

But since Rome, the veil of secrecy had been traded for a gaudy tapestry of urgency, all on the word of a single person, Ivan Strakov, a Russian colonel who was defecting. Or was he? It was as if Ivan had lit a fuse that was burning fast, although no one really knew anything about him. The CIA cover hastily thrown up to protect Kyle had been demolished by the Finnish security cop, and now the Agency had shuttled him over to Estonia, where someone at the dock was holding up a sign with his name on it. And who the hell was the bird colonel?

As with the temptation to open the throttle wide, Swanson understood that some things could move too fast. Even at 70, the press of cold air was eating through the insulation of his suit and leaching away his body heat. He would have to slow down. Now that he was flying solo, he would slow everything down, and try to bring this wild mission under control.

On the roadside berm, a green sign with white letters read: Narva 10 km. Swanson kept going until he spotted a distance marker of three kilometers — less than two miles. He cut the speed and steered the motorcycle off the main highway. He would go into the city, as instructed, but very carefully.