The Cold Edge (24 page)

Checking his watch, he saw he was behind his schedule. He had wanted to reach the estate by noon, but it was twelve-forty now. Still, he suspected Petrova wouldn't guess he would make a run at him in daylight. Nor did the little troll have any idea today would be the day. But he would be looking over his little shoulder for Jake, he could bet on that. Had probably not only predicted the outcome, but orchestrated it himself like a series of chess moves. So why was Jake falling right into his trap? That's what kept running through Jake's mind. He could have just flown to Amsterdam and have a couple of the Alexandrite gems examined for quality and price. Then he would slowly feed them to a discreet contact, collect the money, and load up his retirement fund. After all, who really owned the gems? Jake had found them in a glacial wilderness with the dead body of his friend.

Peering through binoculars, the trees along the shoreline finally appeared, so Jake cut the motor and let the canoe glide. Quietly he picked up a paddle and feathered the stern to keep the canoe running straight. The waves were so high, though, he didn't have to stroke once to reach shore—only J-stroke and rudder. He could hear a rubbing sound to his right.

Moments later the bow ran aground onto a patch of grass and tall weeds to the west of the rocky beach. Only now did Jake notice the dock to his right with a speed boat tied to it, the hull gently squeaking against rubber bumpers. He tilted the electric motor up and then worked his way to the bow, trying not to fall out of the canoe.

Once ashore, he quietly pulled the canoe into the weeds and then farther up into thick alder bushes. Satisfied the canoe was out of view, Jake slipped on one backpack and lifted the other from the canoe. Then he moved to the west a couple of steps, stopped, a couple steps more, stopped. He continued this pattern until he was fifty yards into the compound. So far so good. Unless Petrova had already detected him with silent motion sensors.

Suddenly he stopped. He didn't know why. Looking down to his left, he saw a sensor. Motion. Without moving, his eyes roamed higher on the trees until he saw the flood light. The sensor would flick that light on, so he wasn't busted yet. Pretty low tech, Victor.

Wait. He knew Jake would find that. It would make Jake move around to the right or left. Shit. Was he second guessing everything? Right, left or straight ahead? Think, Jake. What would he do?

The sensor was too obvious, he thought. Move straight ahead. Taking a deep breath, Jake stepped lightly forward and stopped again.

Wait a minute. Would Victor guess that Jake would guess that this was a ruse to get him to go right or left? Then when Jake moved forward the light would go on and set off an alarm inside. You little bastard.

Jake felt the 9mm automatic under his left arm and wanted to simply pull it and run toward the estate. Screw the damn alarms. Just move forward.

Stepping forward, Jake crossed the path of the motion sensor and stopped beyond its range, cringing, waiting for the light that didn't come. But maybe the sensor still sent a silent alarm inside. Screw it, Jake. At this rate, he wouldn't get inside until Christmas.

He cautiously moved forward through the thick underbrush that made the estate almost invisible from the lake or the road. Petrova really liked his privacy.

Finally, Jake came to the edge of the grass that led to the estate. Twenty yards of grass surrounded the huge three-story structure, built in the Georgian style, with tall columns rising two stories to a portico with metal-railed balconies on each window, with, Jake was sure, a splendid view of the lake on days not like this one.

How the hell was he going to cross the grass without being viewed? He sat down into the tall grass among the bushes to contemplate this conundrum.

As he watched in a daze, mostly from the lack of sleep over the past week, a man finally appeared around the right side of the main building. A little man, but Jake could see it wasn't Victor Petrova. This guy was early thirties with spiked platinum hair, and looked like he pumped iron. He reminded Jake of a midget wrestler from the days before WWF or WWE. But this guy was different. He had an MP5 sub-machine gun strapped over his shoulder. Based on his trajectory, he would swing right in front of Jake. He had to move fast.

He left one bag there, camouflaged among the ferns, and scooted around to his left, making his way around the opposite perimeter of the house. Moving slowly, with purpose, he could now hear talking toward a garage structure. When another man, a near clone of the first, only with dark, curly hair, appeared around the edge of the garage, Jake stopped in his tracks and slowly sunk to the ground among the bushes. This little man would swing around and probably tag-team the other guy about halfway around the house. Jake couldn't take out one without the other seeing him do so.

Then, from the garage, came a large man with a shaggy Black Russian Terrier leashed and trying to pull him forward. This dog could have eaten the other two guards for lunch. The handler, who yanked on the leash and almost took the dog's neck off, also had an automatic pistol clipped to his belt. Now Jake could be in trouble. He needed to stay still.

When the man unleashed the dog, it pranced around the yard marking its territory. At one point, it came within ten feet of Jake as it sprinted in front of him along the edge of the yard. Then it finally stopped and took a massive dump, rubbed its feet in the grass, and ran back to the man, cowering as it got a couple feet away. He clipped the dog to the leash again and wandered back to the garage.

Jake needed to get rid of the dogs first. He hated to do it, but knew they were also trained for one thing—to rip into anything or anyone who wasn't supposed to be there. Maybe they would make it easy for him.

Just as the two little guards met near Jake's last position, he got up and made his way behind the garage. Hidden from view from the house and the two guards, Jake peered through a back window into the five-car garage. There were only two cars inside. A vintage MG midget, classic, and a new black BMW 7-series. Along the back side of the far end were kennels for four dogs. The big guy was putting the dog back into the end unit, and then he plodded off through the open garage door toward the house. He left the door open. Finally, a break.

Moving casually around the edge of the garage, Jake entered the door as if he worked there. The dogs immediately stood and took notice, but didn't bark. Jake had come across this breed while stationed in Europe. The old Soviets had used the Black Russian Terriers as guard dogs at some of their nuclear sites. They were strong and extremely loyal, yet somewhat submissive unless provoked or unleashed on someone by a handler.

Looking around the garage, Jake found a chair and pulled it up next to the cages. He put his back to the dogs, took off his pack, and sat down—ignoring them. Reaching into the backpack, he found some beef jerky he had purchased at the sporting goods store and started opening them. He took a bite out of the first piece, looked around behind him, and threw the jerky into the closest kennel. The dog immediately chomped onto the jerky. Jake did the same thing with the other three. Then he repeated the process one more time. By the time he was done, their little black cropped tails wiggled for him. Share a meal and make a friend. He hoped it would work. He hated to kill such beautiful dogs just for the hell of it.

Then Jake stood and gave the dogs commands in Russian. As suspected, they had been trained in that language and they responded to him immediately. New friends and subservient. Nice.

He put his backpack on and made his way toward the outside, but stopped and scooted toward the edge when he saw the large man coming back from the house. Looking around, Jake was trapped.

The man got closer and Jake pulled his gun.

In seconds the dog handler entered the garage. Jake stepped behind the man and said, “Stop right there.”

Startled, the big man turned and started for his gun.

“I wouldn't do that,” Jake said.

The guy stopped, his hand a few inches from his gun.

“You're the American,” the man said through a thick Swedish accent.

“The troll told you about me? I'm flattered. Get on your knees.”

The man hesitated and then complied, his eyes shifting toward the dogs in wonder.

“What's the matter?” Jake asked him. “Your dogs don't seem too concerned?”

His thick brow ridges rose.

“They hate you, Sven. You can treat some species of dogs like shit and they'll still do anything for you. But the Russian Terrier will hate and resent you. Gotta be a little nicer to them.” Jake came up behind the man and struck him with his gun in the back of his head. He went down but not out. Taking the opportunity, Jake took the man's gun. Then, as the man rolled to his side and tried to get up, Jake kicked the guy in the face, smashing the back of his head against the cement. Now he was out cold.

Jake took off his backpack and pulled out some plastic zip strips, affixed them to the man's hands behind his back, and then also strapped his ankles. Next, he found the duct tape and wrapped it around the man's mouth, around his head. Someone would have to cut it off. Then Jake grabbed the man and pulled him to the other end of the garage. He checked the BMW driver's door. It was unlocked. He pressed the trunk release and it popped open for him. With great difficulty, Jake lifted the man into the trunk and closed him inside. Satisfied, Jake found his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at the dogs, who seemed interested but not concerned. Telling them to ‘sit' in Russian, all four did so immediately. Sweet. Now to get into that house.

All of the players had reassembled at the Lillehammer airport. One hour before they would move out, and one and a half until the strike. The Norwegian Police Security Service had the largest contingent, including their SWAT unit, followed by the Norwegian Intelligence Service. The local police were in a secondary, backup position, used mostly to cut off transportation. Sitting back in more of consultant roles were the Central Intelligence Agency, Toni, and MI6, Jimmy McLean and Velda Crane. Leading them all, to most displeasure, was Interpol's Anna Schult.

Anna stood out on the flight line next to the NIS Bell 407, reviewing a map of the area. Kjersti was in the cockpit talking with the tower and weather, trying to find out when the fog would lift.

Jimmy and Velda came over from a large SUV. “We feel a little left out,” Jimmy said to Anna.

Velda nodded agreement.

“I'm sorry,” Anna said. She knew that if it was revealed that there was no flu virus the case would be pulled from her immediately. “Do you have a location on your subject? What's his name?”

“Gary Dixon,” Velda said. “Yes. He's out at Petrova's estate.”

Jimmy jumped in. “This could be a bloody blood bath with all these weapons. Shouldn't we try something a little less. . .obtrusive?”

Anna had seriously considered that herself. She remembered how everything had gone down two years ago, with her and Jake at the Austrian castle. Jake had lost a good friend that day. Much had gone right, but enough had also gone wrong.

“We can't let this virus get in the wrong hands,” Anna said lamely.

Jimmy rubbed the stubble on his strong jaw, looked away, and then back at Anna. “This Jake Adams. I've heard of him. Does he know what he's doing? I mean, why would he bring an active virus to the man who wanted to probably sell it to the highest bidder?”

He had a damn good point, and Anna hoped she wouldn't have to answer that question. At least until she could explain everything.

“I trust Jake with my life,” Anna said, “because he's saved it more than once in the past few years. In the past week. Don't judge him until you know the. . .”

“Truth,” Jimmy finished.

Anna looked down at Velda and then back at Jimmy. They deserved to know the truth, but she couldn't tell them right now. “Everything will become clear soon.”

“Blind faith,” Velda said. “Sounds like a good way to get us killed.”

“Listen,” Anna said. “This Victor Petrova is a bad man. You've read the briefing on him and his organization. We're going to take him down with or without you. You can sit back here in town and drink beer for all I care.” That came out much more harsh than she had intended.

Jimmy stepped back, his hands up. “Hey, take it easy Miss Interpol. I play devil's advocate, then salute smartly. We all drink beer when this is over.”

“I'm sorry,” Anna said. “I've got a lot to consider.”

“No problem,” Jimmy said. “We'll take the high road. Literally. As planned.”

The two MI6 officers left her, but were replaced immediately by Toni Contardo and Colonel Reed.

“What can I do for you?” Anna asked.

“We'd like to change from entering on the road,” Toni said, to taking a boat.

Anna shook her head. “Why?”

“Looks like you could use some help there,” Toni said. “Hate to leave it only to the local cops.”

“I don't know if we have an extra boat,” Anna said.

“We've got that covered.” Toni put her hand on the colonel's shoulder.

“He shouldn't even be here,” Anna said, her gaze harshly fixed on Colonel Reed. “We still don't know for sure if he's working for the Agency or Petrova.” Or perhaps himself, she thought.

“Colonel Reed has actually been to Petrova's estate,” Toni reminded Anna. “And I assure you he is not working for that KGB dwarf.”

Anna looked at the colonel, who seemed contrite. “Fine. You better get down to the lake, then.”

Toni smiled and she and the colonel walked off to their car, Anna watching every sway of her hips. Kjersti was wrong. Toni still had it going on.

This was crazy, Anna thought. Why had they put her in charge? Toni had decades more experience than her. She knew the answer, though. If anything went wrong, the Americans, the Brits, and the Norwegians could blame everything on Interpol. Hang her out to dry. But at least she knew something they didn't know—there was no virus. That was one comforting fact.