Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1) (34 page)

“No, he didn’t . . .”

“Yes, he did come to visit. He was actually looking for you.”

Justin frowned. “I’m not really in the mood to argue with him.”

“He’s worried sick about you. Your brother came with him too. You should talk to them both.”

“Look, Carrie, if I want your advice—”

“I know you don’t want it, but I’m giving it to you anyway. You need to make peace with your family, OK? Don’t let the past haunt you any longer.” Carrie looked deep into his eyes. “I know you want to see your old man again.”

“What, you’re an oracle now?”

“I’m just saying they’re staying at the Welcome Inn, in case you change your mind.”

Justin nodded, then gave her a shrug.

Carrie sighed. “Oh, I’m so tired. Everything hurts, and the doctor says it will not get better for a few more days.”

“There’s no rush. Take your time and get your strength back. Our job is done.”

“Kiawak told me a few things about what happened after the explosion, but his version was sketchy.”

“You’re not going to believe what I have to tell you and show you,” Justin said, unfastening his wristwatch.

“That’s new. Where did you get it? At the gift store?”

“No. This watch belonged to Magnus Tornbjorn, the Danish Chief of Operations for Arctic Wargame.”

“What?”

“Yes, you heard me correctly. This watch is not what it seems. Actually, nothing in this story is as it seems.”

Chapter Thirty-three

Federal Security Service Headquarters, Moscow, Russia

April 16, 8:15 a.m.

Grigori Smirnov stared for a long time at Lubyanka Square. His weary eyes followed the black Mercedes, Porsches, and other expensive vehicles zooming around the traffic circle. A stream of pedestrians flowed from the Metro station, heading for their offices, braving the chilling breeze and the first snowflakes blanketing the streets.

Smirnov sighed and frowned. His day had begun as chaotic as the traffic outside his office. It had been over twenty-four hours since he last communicated with Yuliya, just before the beginning of the Arctic Wargame. Smirnov hated silence. Silence meant bad news. Bad news meant mistakes, blame, and scapegoats. Especially since his superiors had started asking questions. Questions to which he had no answers. Or worse, questions he could not afford to answer.

He allowed himself a small grin. Yuliya had disappeared and he wished she were dead or somehow incapacitated. She had become a liability. And so had Helma, the kidnapped wife of Gunter Madsen.
The prick. Botching up a perfectly good operation.

He sighed again. His breath fogged a small section of the window glass. The view became blurry, and the cars and the people disappeared from his sight. He turned around and walked to his desk, determined to erase all traces of his involvement in the Arctic Wargame, his brainchild, and cut all his ties to this operation.

There was a knock on his door. Smirnov grinned. He was expecting the man behind the door. The man who was going to fix all his problems. The man he should have sent in Yuliya’s place. “Come in, Vladimir.”

A lean man in his late thirties entered his office. Vladimir was Smirnov’s assistant for overseas clandestine operations and the man who was personally involved in kidnapping Gunter’s wife.

“Hello, boss,” he said and remained standing by the door.

“Take a seat.”

“OK.”

“There’s bad news. Arctic Wargame failed. We need to pull the plug.”

“OK.”

One of the reasons why Smirnov loved Vladimir’s work was his complete disinterest in the motives. When he was told to do something, he got it done, no questions asked.

“Yuliya Novikov has become a problem to this office and to our country,” Smirnov said.

“Shall we eliminate her?”

“She is most likely dead or out of the game. I need you to contact her family. Inform them in clear terms that if Yuliya is alive and starts singing, unfortunate events may take place in their lives.”

Vladimir nodded.

“If Yuliya is alive,” Smirnov said, “she’s probably in Canadian custody and highly protected. Difficult for us to put a hit on her. But we can ruin her reputation here, so if she says anything, no one will ever believe her. You know what to do.”

Vladimir nodded.

“Next issue, Helma. Can she make you or the other men?”

“No, she can’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. We wore masks when we grabbed her and she was blindfolded most of the time.”

“She can recognize your voice?”

“Never talked to her.”

“The voices of the other men?”

“Perhaps. But they entered Denmark as tourists and ran into her at a market center. That’s not much evidence.”

Smirnov frowned and thought about Vladimir’s words for a few seconds. “It’s still evidence. If the Danes or the Canadians begin to connect the dots, I don’t want anything tying those men to you or me.”

“Shall we eliminate them?”

Smirnov nodded. “Unfortunately, we have to.”

Vladimir’s face remained void of emotions.

“Clean up the apartment where you held her. Fingerprints, DNA, sanitize everything. Then let her go.”

Vladimir’s left eyebrow curled up.

“Yes, I don’t want her killed. The minister is on my tail and the Danish are already asking questions. No more dead civilians.”

Vladimir nodded.

“Once you’re done with that, delete all files, communications, reports, any trace we had anything to do with the Arctic Wargame. Burn it all up.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Any questions?”

“Just one.”

“Yes?”

“What did we do wrong?”

“We, you and I, we did nothing wrong. The people we selected for this operation, they failed us. They let us down. They were unprepared or performed miserably. I’ve learned the Canadians mounted a great resistance. Maybe we should have had a larger force carry out the attack.” Smirnov paused and took a big breath. “In any case, this operation confirmed our initial suspicions. We can slip through their defenses with ease, but the Canadians are tougher than they seem. Next time, we’ll just use a sledgehammer approach. We’ll go in with professionals.”

“Yes, boss.”

“That’s all.” Smirnov nodded toward the door. “Get it done.”

“Right away, boss.”

Epilogue

Ottawa, Canada

May 28, 08:30 a.m.

The doctors had spent a lot of time to convince Carrie she was not ready to walk the five blocks from her apartment to the closest bus stop. They also prohibited her from driving her Nissan to work until the end of her six-week recovery period. Since her discharge from the Montfort Hospital two weeks ago, Justin had been taking Carrie to run errands, to the mall and grocery stores, to movie theatres and restaurants. On crutches, Carrie managed light chores around the house. Today, six weeks after the Arctic events, they were both on their way to the CIS headquarters in Ottawa.

“Tell me, how did your date go last night?” Carrie asked.

Justin, who was driving her blue Nissan, zoomed through an intersection as the traffic light switched from amber to red. “What date?”

“The one with Anna, genius.”

“Oh, that one. Why do you want to know?”

“I’m a curious girl, but save me the gross details, if there were any . . . were there any?”

Justin frowned but did not look at her.

“I’m kidding, relax. I just want to make sure things are going well between you two.”

“Things are going well. Satisfied?”

“How well?”

“Obviously not satisfied.” He sighed. “It’s only our third date. She’s sweet, and we have many common interests. I’m enjoying the time I’m spending with Anna.”

“Is it like . . . like when we went out?”

“Oh, is this what you’re fishing for, comparisons with the past?”

“Take it easy. That’s not what I’m after.”

“OK, tell me what
exactly
are you after?”

“I want to make sure she’s getting the best of you, that part of you so often invested in work, research, or anything else but the girl. Anna deserves all your passion, your desires, your understanding. Even that part of you I never got.”

Justin’s frown melted, as Carrie’s voice became softer. “Justin, you and Anna will make a great couple. Please, make sure you don’t allow work to get in the way.”

“Work is exactly what brought us together, and I will not let it pull us apart.”

“If that starts to happen, I’ll come and scream at you ‘what the hell are you doing?’” Carrie said with a big smile.

“Yes, please do that.”

“I will. I wish someone would have done it for us, but they didn’t, and I can’t change the past. But I can help you plan the wedding and name your babies.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there. Aren’t we rushing things here just a little bit? Wedding? Babies? We’ve gone out only three times!”

“Hey, it’s never too early to plan who’s going to be your kids’ godmother. And now, thanks to me, you’ve got one less thing to worry about. I’ll let you and Anna take care of the rest.”

“Gee, thanks. I’ll let you know if I need more of this kind of help.”

“Look, that’s . . . isn’t that Nick there?” Carrie pointed at a black sedan to their right. “No, I guess it’s not.”

“Nice change of subject, but thanks for changing it. Are you ready for today’s meeting?”

“I’ve been ready two weeks ago. I told the surgeon at Montfort to give me a wheelchair. I could have rolled out in style through our office corridors. But he insisted I had to walk and regain control of my leg muscles.”

“Do they hurt?”

“Is the sky blue? Of course they hurt. I have to sit down every fifteen minutes, otherwise they’ll give in. But yeah, I’ll think I’m ready to face the music.”

* * *

No bagpipes were waiting for their arrival at the CIS headquarters, and no red carpet was rolled out for them. In fact, Carrie humbly submitted her aluminum crutches to the meticulous search of two heavyset guards at the entrance. A few acquaintances nodded quick hellos. No questions asked, no explanations sought. This was an intelligence agency and their missions were secret. Only the people who needed to know learned only what they needed to know.

The elevator ride to the sixth floor was fast and quiet. Carrie winced as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other a couple of times. They came out of the elevator and made their way to the office of Ms. Claire Johnson, Director General of Intelligence for the North Africa Division.

Justin announced their arrival with a light knock. “Welcome back, Carrie,” Johnson greeted them at the door.

She waited for Carrie to hobble inside and take a seat at the oval glass table.

“I’m glad to see both of you are doing well.” She sat next to Carrie. “Much better than the last time I saw you at Montfort.”

“You should have seen the Danes,” Carrie replied, “the ones that made it alive, I mean.”

Johnson grinned. Her gray eyes glowed. She turned to Justin. “Do you have the reports ready?”

“Yes. They’re complete.” He removed two manila folders from his briefcase. “This one,” he said, pointing at the thick one, then sliding it toward his boss, “is the classified report. The only copy. The second file is for the public archives.”

Johnson flipped through the classified report. “It’s very detailed and comprehensive.”

“I used the recollection of the events from my team members and the people on the ground. In addition, the intel provided by our foreign assets allowed us to recreate a clear picture of the Arctic Wargame.”

Johnson opened the second folder. She smiled as she read the two-page document inside. “I like the words you’ve chosen to describe the Arctic Wargame operation for the public: ‘The Arctic Wargame, executed through coordinated teamwork among various Canadian government departments, simulated hostile incursions in Canada’s Arctic and the immediate defensive response by the local population and the Canadian Forces.’ Bravo.”

Justin nodded modestly.

Johnson set aside both folders. “Regarding your informants, they seem to have adapted quite well to the Witness Protection Program,” she said with a smile. “And they gave us more intel about someone else other than the Danes pulling the strings of the Arctic Wargame.”

“But we still have nothing concrete that the Russians organized this attack?” Justin asked.

“Yes, nothing concrete,” Johnson replied, “but a lot of circumstantial evidence. And there was an interesting development in Denmark.”

“The Danes are ready to apologize?” Carrie asked.

“Eh, far from it. They’re still investigating. Canada’s using all diplomatic channels to clear up this situation without making too many waves. We’re talking to our counterparts in the Danish intelligence to clarify everything.”

Carrie shook her head. Justin closed his eyes. “What’s the interesting development?” he asked.

“Ms. Helma Madsen, the wife of Gunter Madsen, is claiming to have been kidnapped. According to her, she was released a couple of weeks ago and the kidnappers were Russians.”

Carrie frowned. “She has some evidence for her claims?”

“No. She insists the men who took her spoke Russian. She says she can recognize their voices, but she never saw their faces.”

“Is that it?” Justin asked.

“That’s insufficient,” Carrie said.

Johnson nodded. “Yes and no. Yes, we know the Russians organized the Arctic Wargame. No, we don’t have evidence to prove it.”

Justin sighed. Carrie frowned but said nothing.

“On the bright side of things,” Johnson said, “the government has almost finished revising its Arctic Strategy, focusing on its enhancement and its expansion. The budget proposal will almost double the funding for the defense of our Northern borders over the next five years. We’ll have more Rangers on the ground and they’ll be better equipped, with state-of-the-art technology. Two other deep-water ports are being proposed, one at Banks Island and the other at Baffin Island, at each end of the Northwest Passage, in addition to the one in Nanisivik. Canada will have five more vessels with year-round icebreaking capabilities in addition to the one in Nanisivik.”