Sabotage (15 page)

“Any guesses as to the reason?”

“Not yet. I'm hoping it's just a minor hiccup, and that systems will soon function normally again.”

Selvaggio let the news sink in for a moment.

“Log a glitch in the radar,” he said. “Call a technician and see what he can do. Closely monitor all personnel who sit in front of this screen. I'm hoping we can rule out tampering. Let's be sure.”

 

THIRTEEN

“Sverre, Jorgen—this box to the
Baduhenna,
the other to the
Jarnsaxa
.”

Ragnar paced the docks, overseeing dozens of husky workers loading contraband onto double-masted corsairs. Their arms bore the insignia of a horned helmet over a double-sided ax.

Hidden in Norwegian fjords miles above the Arctic Circle, their convoy would set sail by nightfall.

The boxes were light enough to hoist onto their shoulders. The men moved as if they treated every second as precious. They never looked at Ragnar, and they said little as they transported cargo. They knew he was watching.

He was aware of the respect he commanded. He'd been with them a long time, and they knew his beginnings. His father, Ernst Stahl, had been a decorated aviator and pilot of VIP aircraft—a regular for the Swedish prime minister and the royal family. After the birth of their third child, Ernst had bludgeoned his wife to death and left the infant to perish. He'd fled with his two toddlers, Ragnar and Benedikt, to a countryside retreat in the far north of Sweden, where the three had resided in a summer house on the banks of Lake Torneträsk. After nine years in seclusion, Ragnar had shot his father with a hunting rifle to protect Benedikt from Ernst's beatings. The boys were found by a local Sami reindeer herder and fur trapper. They had helped chop lumber, tend to animals, and build fishing canoes, growing tough working through winters until the herder had fallen ill. Benedikt had wanted to stay in Sweden to become a pilot like his father. Ragnar had crossed the border to Norway to avoid foster care. He'd survived on his own in Narvik, inhabiting a manor's detached wine cellar until roving criminals had invaded the home and incorporated him into their band at eighteen.

Ragnar checked his watch and dialed a number. The answer came immediately.

“I'm here.”

“Viking. We leave dock within the hour,” Ragnar said.

“How was your trip?”

“The professor remained asleep throughout the flight. I watched his plane go down minutes after I parachuted out. A group of my men awaited my arrival in a Zodiac. They took me back to our dock, where I've been able to supervise the loading of weaponry.”

“You're certain you saw the plane go down?”

“There's no mistaking a splash that size.”

“We only await your arrival, Ragnar. I've spoken with the president of Glitnir. Soon he will recover from his shock, and I'll make my first call to the company directly. I've asked Vasya to begin his assignments. First he'll remove the nuclear physicist from the picture. Then he'll meet with our biggest potential buyer, Farzad Deeb, to negotiate a starting bid. They will convene in Bruges.”

Ragnar didn't like the idea of a change in plan.

“Bruges?”

“Deeb's request. He's visiting a partner in Brussels and wants to attend a festival in Bruges shortly after. Crowds attracted by the festival will make the meeting safer for both. Besides, I doubt Vasya would want to visit Deeb's home near Tripoli. Considering the degenerates he associates with, we benefit by the relocation. I wouldn't trust Deeb in the comfort of his home. I need my soldier.”

“Vasya's capable of defending himself.”

“He's nonetheless safer away from Deeb's turf. You've given the briefcase to Vasya, yes? Deeb will require the demonstration.”

“I'll soon hand it over.”

“I also assume you found the passkey without difficulty.”

Hearing the inevitable question, Ragnar clenched a fist. “The drawer you had described … was empty.”

Disquiet coiled within a silent phone line.

“This was supposed to be simple.”

“Not only was it missing from the drawer, but it was nowhere in the office. The professor must have given it to someone.”

“No, Ragnar.” The Viking's snarl was fierce but regulated. “Malcolm Clare doesn't trust a soul in this world. He wouldn't entrust the passkey to anyone but his own daughter, and she knows nothing of Baldr. The key must have been in his office, where it's always been.”

“It wasn't there.”

“Vasya has spent the last ten months observing interactions between Clare, Chatham, Avdeenko, and the Glitnir headquarters. His interceptions of relevant communications have led us to know the password. Problems would arise should someone else discover it. Lifting the flash drive was not necessary for Baldr's acquisition. It was necessary to prevent retrieval. The key is to be destroyed.”

“Our plans shouldn't change. For someone to reclaim Baldr, he would have to appropriate the briefcase from Vasya—a trained assassin—interpret the transmission, and enter the passkey. The odds border on the impossible.”

“I don't roll dice. This operation was designed to leave nothing to chance.”

“The key wasn't there.” This was a bark, not a statement.

“You should have kept looking. Fail me again, and I'll be forced to lessen your share.”

“Our agreement holds. Betray me or my men, and I'll hurt you. You won't exactly be in a position to defend yourself.”

The Viking disregarded the comment. “Contact me when you've left Norway. You've a long voyage ahead.”

“When does the bidding begin?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I hope your rat is as good an actor as he is a turncoat.”

“He will be. Now finish preparing your ships. Your crew needs you.”

Ragnar ended the call and replayed the conversation in his head. The Viking owed him a greater debt than he could imagine. If he double-crossed Ragnar, he would pay with his life.

His mood didn't improve when he spotted a man waiting for him at the end of the jetty. He was swarthy and handsome, his lips curled into a smile as sharp as his widow's peak. He looked amused as he watched the sailors lifting heavy cargo. This angered Ragnar; he could see the man's hands were smooth, uncalloused—perhaps a little physical labor would humble him, if there were time to put him to work. The man approached, and Ragnar realized the smile was pigmented with unease, probably owing to their difference in size. Suddenly he felt he had the upper hand, even as the man confidently clasped his shoulder.

“I believe you have something for me,” said the man.

“Vasya. Follow me.”

As he led the newcomer aboard the tallest corsair, Ragnar cautioned him about its billowing sails, which in windy weather had been known to strike the unmindful. They descended a compact staircase to a chamber below the weather deck, where a lantern dangled from the ceiling and maps were rolled out on a table, held in place by littered paperweights, sextants, and a mariner's compass. A vault was recessed over a bed next to a wall-mounted marine chronometer. There were no decorations; every object in the chamber had some utility.

“A captain's quarters,” Vasya said. “A privilege.”

Ragnar ignored the flattery and pointed to a spot on the map. “When the
Pearl Enchantress
arrives at the given coordinates, begin the demonstration.” Ragnar opened the vault and handed Clare's briefcase to Vasya, who took it with both hands. “For now, Baldr is yours. Use it well.”

When they returned to the main deck, a handshake affirmed their devotion to the mission, and Vasya walked ashore. A car waited around a bend. He took the driver's seat. The vehicle began a long, twisting journey to a distant airport.

“Godspeed,” Ragnar said.

The corsairs were fully loaded when night fell. Darkness would obscure passage. Winds picked up as if to beckon the fleet seaward. Crewmen untied the lines and cast off. The ships began to creep away from the hideout, transporting sealed boxes and identically tattooed sailors down the main channel.

Still waters stirred as five corsairs departed from Ragnar's cove. The fjordal walls rose sharply. Foliage grew from clefts and crags to coat stone with green. After sundown, the sheer faces became jagged shapes lacking definition or dimension, detectable only by the blotting of stars. Norse warriors had used these clandestine waterways to hide vessels during the Middle Ages, and had gazed up at the same mountainous teeth connecting the earth with the heavens.

Breeze turned to gale as they ventured into the open, and Ragnar stood at his ship's bow, hand clasped to the forward mast. Forecasting a squall, he leaned into the wind, tasting the air, and let his mind unreel under the sound of the buffeting sails. He was going home.

 

PART II

PULSE

 

FOURTEEN

Pulkovo International Airport bustled with activity as tourists disembarked and cleared customs. To obtain visas, Austin and Victoria had visited a special bureau, where a disagreeable officer had raised doubts as to whether they'd be able to set foot outside the airport. Unsatisfied with their answers to his questions, he had delegated the decision to second and third representatives, who had repeated the questions and insisted upon thorough bag inspections. After two painful hours of standing at the counter, they had been granted the necessary documents.

They had slept soundly during the first leg of their journey to London and entered an even deeper slumber, albeit brief, heading northeast to Saint Petersburg. They'd awakened to the thud of the aircraft's wheels making contact with the runway.

Groggy, they stood outside the terminal and hailed a cab. Victoria indicated a point on a map, and the driver accelerated toward an apartment complex off Nevsky Prospekt, the city's main thoroughfare. Twenty minutes later they arrived at the city center.

For more than two hundred years, Saint Petersburg—formerly known as Petrograd and Leningrad—had been the capital of the Russian Empire. In 1703, Tsar Peter the Great founded the city during the Great Northern War with Sweden, building the Peter and Paul Fortress, which would stand as the first brick and stone building. For all its grandeur, the city could not claim a pleasant past. Austin gazed out the window and spotted peddlers selling crafts on the sidewalk. They bore signs of oppression: sunken, spiritless faces, lumbering gaits, haggard dress. Vagabonds slumped on street corners by shambling structures. Fortune did not favor the elderly.

Victoria stared out the other window, lost in her own reflections.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Austin said.

He was sure she had heard him, but she took her time to answer.

“Just imagining,” she said, “what it must have been like for my dad living here.”

“I wasn't aware he'd spent time in Russia.”

Austin realized how little he knew about the professor's personal life.

“Long story,” she said.

It was always hard to read her. There was no telling what she was inclined to share, and when curiosity might offend. He decided not to ask, but she seemed willing to volunteer more.

“You might have heard of my paternal grandfather, Hugh.”

“Of course I know that name.”

Hugh Saxon Clare was a well-known British physical chemist and metallurgist who had advanced the understanding of solid-state materials. He had studied the effects of atomic-level imperfections on the properties of metals and alloys, publishing his work in the seminal book
Thermodynamics of Solid State Reactions
. Hugh's father, Rupert Clare, had been involved in developing poisonous gases used in World War One.

“His wife was Doreen, my grandmother,” Victoria explained. “She worked for Vancuso Wireless Telegraph Company, a British telecommunications enterprise. As a logistics coordinator, she helped establish a network of coastal radio stations for ship-to-shore communications.”

Austin listened. Serving as a scientific advisor to the Royal Air Force, Hugh had been invited to attend a chemistry conference at Moscow State University. Soon after he arrived, Doreen was mailed a telegram stating her husband had been killed in a Moscow car crash. After two years spent believing the telegram, she received a coded letter from Hugh informing her that he was alive: The Soviets had faked his accident and forced him to advise Air Defence Forces on the construction of robust aircraft. Hugh's letter warned Doreen not to inform the British government, lest he be killed and the family targeted by Soviets.

In an effort to find him, Doreen left her job. A series of petitions and bribes earned her unauthorized entrance into the USSR. Malcolm and Barrington, her two children, came with her. After a year of searching, she learned Hugh was detained at a military base in Lipetsk, but her attempts to make contact were foiled by police guards. She was forced to work as an English typist for a KGB officer under threat of her husband's execution. The boys had no means of communicating with their father, and soon Doreen was resigned to accepting their separation.

Malcolm often threw rocks at the police for mistreating his mother. Barrington kept a low profile; he also never came home with bruises on his face. Doreen would scold Malcolm for his insubordination, telling him to accept life under strict control, but he would sneak by the base in Lipetsk hoping to glimpse his father. Usually he saw nothing but a field lined with Soviet fighter craft. He spent his nights dreaming that Hugh would commandeer one of them and soar into freedom. He conceived of unconventional aircraft and made sketches in his free time, regarding the plane as a symbol of liberty and autonomy.

At fourteen, he finally did see his father. Hugh had been sitting at a table of officers. He'd put a finger to his lips and greeted Malcolm at the fence. There he'd instructed the boy to take his mother and brother and return to England—and if she refused, to go himself.