The Cold Edge (11 page)

That was the burning problem stuck deep in Jake's gut. There had to be a reason to leave it there, but he still had no clue why.

Anna looked to Jake for answers.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “The cover story is that the pilot tried to defect. We know that's probably bogus. But what if it was actually true? What if the pilot was part of some conspiracy to ship the virus out of the Soviet Union? Maybe the authorities were not entirely sure about his actions or what he was planning. When he crashed, they sent a sanitation crew to make sure he was dead.” Jesus he wasn't sure he believed that scenario.

“I don't know,” Anna said. “The old Soviets would have sent a second crew once the first crew didn't return.”

“I agree,” Kjersti said.

“Afraid I do too,” Jake conceded. Then it came to him. “Unless someone with enough power cancelled the operation and destroyed all evidence of the event.”

Kjersti shrugged and Anna nodded her head in agreement.

Jake continued, “Then the cover-up was on. If they sent another crew, that would have forced us to send another crew to counter them. But you forget about it, and like my friends at the Agency told me, say it was simply a defection gone bad, then both sides can write it off as a horseshit op and move on. Besides, as far as we know, the actual location of the downed plane was never relayed back to Washington or Moscow. They would have had to start over from scratch. And, according to the weather reports from that time, it didn't stop snowing for nearly two months, completely encasing the MiG into the landscape. In fact, as you saw, the crash site appeared to have been undisturbed in more than twenty years.”

“Except for the animal predation,” Kjersti reminded Jake. “But it looked like some of that came years ago. Perhaps just after they were killed.”

“Right,” Jake said. He thought of his old friend, Steve Olson, and how he would probably become polar bear bait in the next few weeks.

Anna swung the rifle to her shoulder. “Where do we go from here?”

“Exactly,” Kjersti said. “What do we do with the box?”

That was the problem still rumbling in Jake's gut. It would be irresponsible to simply leave it behind. If some bird caught the virus and then passed it on to another bird and then to a human, and that human passed it to another. He didn't want to think about him having unleashed a pandemic virus, with deaths in the millions.

Jake let out a quick breath and said, “We'll have to get a hold of some guanidinium thiocyanate to inactivate the virus before transport.”

“What is that?” Kjersti asked.

Anna said, “It renders the virus inactive without killing its structure. So scientists will still be able to study it to possibly synthesize a cure or a vaccine to fight it.”

“Why not just destroy it and call it done?” Kjersti asked, her gaze shifting from Anna to Jake.

“Just in case,” he said. “In case the Russians still have a stockpile of the virus in some lab. We have to assume that this is only a small representative sample of the virus.”

“I'm so stupid,” Kjersti said. “I didn't even think about that possibility.”

“It's why our military handles most of the testing and storage of these viruses. It's more for defense than offense. We never know what might get out there. I've been ordered to turn this over to the American government. Nobody else can properly handle this.”

Kjersti's disposition seemed to fade. “Well let's get you two back to Longyearbyen as soon as possible.”

“No,” Jake said. “They'll be waiting for us there. We need a Plan B.”

Oslo, Norway

They had followed the little guy, Gary Dixon, all over the city, as he met with various contacts, most of equally diminutive stature. Jimmy McLean had stayed back now as his associate Velda Crane had taken the lead. But Jimmy didn't like laying back in the shadows. He wanted to be out front taking charge. Yet, he knew there were times when he had to give up control. He had taken photos of those Dixon had contacted and sent them to London for identification. Nearly all of them had records of underground activity, most of them jacked for petty crimes. But the disturbing fact had been their nationalities—everything from Norwegian to Swedish to Danish and even Russian. What did they all have in common, other than the obvious fact that most were also little people? Jimmy McLean had no idea there were so many small folks running around—especially with criminal records. Did he simply not see these people on the streets because of his own large stature?

Sitting in his hotel room on Karl Johan, McLean thought about how Velda had worked like a real pro. Not that she didn't in the past. But this was different. To Gary Dixon, Velda was a supermodel, and he had insisted she follow him around Oslo as arm candy. She had even changed into a more revealing outfit, with high heels that made her rise above her new friends. McLean had been able to listen to all of their conversations, knowing she had played the part of her life.

Now, he waited in his hotel room, glancing out the window at the busy street below, the major thoroughfare of Oslo, with the Royal Palace and the Norwegian Parliament a few blocks away. Thousands of pedestrians streamed by below, but he still caught a glimpse of Velda as she strut along the sidewalk and into his hotel lobby.

A few minutes later came a low knock on his door. McLean let Velda in and she smiled at him before taking a running jump and landing on his queen-sized bed, rolling onto her side and kicking her high heels to the carpeted floor.

“What a day of hiking,” Velda said. “Haven't walked that much in months.”

Jimmy McLean opened the mini-fridge and pulled out a couple small bottles of booze. “Will you look at this? Irish whiskey but not a drop of single malt Scotch.”

“Ah, pour it on some ice and call it good.”

He threw her one of the bottles, which she caught with her tiny right hand.

“Or we can drink it like this.” She cracked open the bottle and took down half, not affected by the surge of warmth.

Jimmy McLean downed his bottle all in one stroke, letting out a hearty breath of air. “Just what the doctor ordered.” He threw the empty bottle into the garbage can and pulled up a chair near the bed.

“Well, you gonna ask me?” she said.

“Ask you what?”

“If I slept with Gary.”

With the exception of the last hour, he had directly monitored every conversation the two of them had made, but then they had gone into the little man's hotel two blocks away and she had called McLean off for a while. He trusted her and knew she could handle herself.

“What did you learn from him?” he asked, ignoring her baiting him into caring.

“I didn't,” she said. “But it wasn't easy. He was all over me, like a fat girl on chocolate.”

“But?”

“He showed me that, too. Yet, why settle for a lizard when I can have a dinosaur?”

“So now I'm old as a fossil?”

“You know what I meant, Jimmy.”

He didn't want to go here. They had too much to consider. He knew something was going down, but he didn't want it to be Velda. At least not right now.

“Business, Velda.”

She cocked her head to one side. “How about another drink first?”

He went and got her another bottle and threw it to her.

“Vodka,” she said. “Now that's appropriate.” This time she sucked down the entire bottle in one shot and set her empty onto the nightstand.

“What'd you find out?” he reiterated.

“I found out Gary Dixon, besides being a randy dog, is in to something big. Bigger than he's been involved in ever.”

“He didn't tell you what?”

“No. He talked about a package. A box.”

McLean had heard a little of that. “What do you think he meant by that?”

“I don't know. But it's worth a lot of money to someone. Right, the vodka. Some guy showed up at Gary's room. A Russian.”

“A Russian? What did he want?”

“Don't know. They talked out in the hall. Gary came back more excited than normal.”

“What the Russian look like?”

“You mean, was he also a little person?”

“Well, we didn't get a photo of him, since I came to the room.”

“I saw him, though. And I never forget a face.”

That was true. Her memory for facial details was quite amazing. “All right. We'll check on the computer and see what we can find.”

“Hang onto your kilt, Jimmy. Gary Dixon has a dinner meeting with the man tonight. Maybe we should get a little rest before then.” She patted her hand onto the bed, raised her brows, and smiled at him.

He knew it would come to this eventually. They had played around a little in the past—she placing his hand onto her breasts, and then the more recent encounter in the dark Edinburgh alley. The tension had been thick, and now he also felt the thickness in his pants. That's what she wanted, then that's what he'd give her—every centimeter.

Pushing the chair to the side, he stood before her and slowly removed his pants and underwear. Standing before her in all his glory, her eyes got very wide.

“Now that's a T-Rex,” she said.

Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

Kurt Jenkins sipped a cup of green tea as he read an intelligence briefing, a Russian area analyst standing in front of the director's mahogany desk and a stunning brunette sitting back on the sofa, her slim legs crossed. Jenkins had gotten off the SAT phone with Jake Adams an hour ago, immediately asked his analysts for more information on the old Soviet virus development, and had been somewhat surprised they had come through for him so soon. It was only a two-page brief, but quite thorough and in-depth.

The analyst, a man who looked like a computer geek right out of college, thick glasses and a bow tie, with a crumpled white shirt that looked like he had slept in it, alternated from one foot to the next like a stork. His dark eyes kept shifting to the side to catch a view of the pretty woman.

“Are you sure the Soviets were actually developing a modified version of the nineteen-eighteen H1N1 influenza A virus back in the 80s?” Jenkins asked the young man and then sipped more tea.

“Yes, sir.” The analyst pushed his glasses higher on his narrow nose. “And as far as we know, they still have the virus frozen at their research facility.”

“But no indication they have ever had any breach of security or theft of the virus.”

“No, sir. But. . .” His eyes drifted again toward the woman and then back to the director. “But we might never know for sure. As you know, the old Soviet Union collapsed around that time and security crumbled to a certain extent.”

Jenkins didn't need this young man telling him that, since he had spent much of his covert life cleaning up messes in the former East Bloc.

“What about what Jake Adams mentioned,” Jenkins said, picking up the briefing for reference, “this guanidinium thiocyanate.” He struggled with the words and shook his head.

The man nodded and adjusted his glasses nervously again. “Yes, sir. That would render the virus inactive, but our scientists would still be able to study it and come up with a way to battle any release, inadvertent or otherwise.” He cleared his throat.

“So you recommend we use this. . .stuff. . .before transporting?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir. Jake Adams was right on the mark with that.”

“You know Jake Adams?”

“No, sir. Just heard about him. His work with the Joint Strike Fighter, Kurdistan, the Dolomites, China, and his more recent work in Austria.”

“Sounds like you're a fan,” Jenkins said.

The analyst smiled and nodded.

“That'll be all.”

The man turned, checking out the woman as he did, and left the office.

When he was gone, the brunette rose from the sofa and took a seat in a leather chair closer to the director. Toni Contardo had recently taken on a special projects role at the headquarters after working in the field in mostly Europe for the past couple decades. She was in her early forties, but could easily pass for thirty-five. Some would say she was in her prime as a field officer, having risen to station chief in Austria and Italy. But Jenkins asked her to take on this new position and she reluctantly accepted. After all, she had not even lived in America for nearly twenty years.

“What do you think?” Jenkins asked Toni.

“I think your analyst has more ticks than a Tennessee coon hound,” she said. “And he just might have a man crush on Jake.”

“Are you jealous?” Jenkins knew all too well the history between Jake Adams and Toni Contardo.

“I'm so over him.”

“If you say so.”

“Besides, isn't he still shacking up with that Austrian Interpol whore?”

Jenkins smiled. “But you're not bitter.”

“Can we get on with this? What kind of shit has Jake stepped in this time?”

My God she was still beautiful. But all business with him. Too bad. “All right.” He briefed her on what Jake Adams had been up to from start to finish, leaving out nothing. When he was done, he waited and watched her carefully.

“And Colonel Reed is not working for us?” Toni asked, a face of incredulity.

“Not officially. We have not been able to reach him yet. But we have assets in the area looking for him. You know Reed, right?”

“Yeah. But just by reputation. Jake talked about him. He had nothing but good things to say about Reed. Jake also mentioned the death of Steve Olson. But that happened before Jake joined the CIA and before we met. So it was always past tense. I knew they had been good friends, though. Jake would have gone off to the Arctic to bring back his body, or at least find out what happened to the man.”

“How'd you know I was going to ask you that?”

“How many years in the field? Besides, it's the question I would have asked. Why would Jake take off to the Arctic on a whim? And, perhaps more importantly, was Jake and Colonel Reed into something they shouldn't be into? You said the Interpol slut was with him?”