Swedish Drop Page 2

  "Help yourself."

  Am I really supposed to get him something to drink? I guess so...

  When John returned holding a bottle of water, he was surprised the man had set his black hat and the envelope on the desk and was loosening his scarf. John sucked in a quick breath at what he saw — the courier wore a clerical collar. "Father..." John mumbled, offering him the bottle. "Is there anything else?"

  "It's monsignor..."

  John squared his shoulders as the heat rose to his cheeks. Gazing into the clergyman's watery dark eyes he blurted, "I meant no disrespect... How was I to know?"

  The man in the long black trench coat clapped John on the back, and cackled, "You wouldn't... You wouldn't..." After taking a few swigs of water, he tightened his scarf and started for the door. John peered at him bewildered while he stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his hat. Satisfied with his reflection, the monsignor turned to John, and said, "I'll light a candle for you before mass this evening."

  When he was gone, John shook his head and considered what had just happened. Since he was an expert linguist, he paid close attention to speech patterns and found the monsignor's puzzling.

  He spoke in English, but he has a thick accent... What was it? German maybe... or Czech? No, it was Slovak... Either way, the clergyman has come a long distance to deliver the envelope, or at least it appears so.

  Curious, John walked to the window and pulled back the drape just enough to see the street without being noticed. And not long after, the monsignor appeared on the sidewalk shuffling along with the same awkward gate.

  Just as John was about to let go of the curtain, a white Volvo pulled alongside him, and the clergyman quickly opened the back door and ducked inside. As he eased the door shut, the car pulled into the lane of traffic and motored away.

  I guess the guy really was a man of the cloth. Or was he in a disguise? No, that beard was real... and so were the wrinkles around his eyes...

  John shivered. Something was off — out of place.

  Is this some kind of bad joke... another test like Barcelona?

  Rubbing the back of his neck, John shoved his ambivalence about the eccentric courier to the side and turned his attention on the envelope. It appeared to be only half-full of what he assumed was the information he needed for the mission. But what if it was a bomb, or contained the nerve agent A-234 — a favorite poison of the Russians.

  Risks like this are unavoidable. It's the name of the game...

  Since the courier had handled the parcel and was unaffected, he scratched the idea of it containing A-234. But a bomb —

  There's only one way to find out...

  Before he started, John remembered his cup of tea and went to get it. The tepid liquid and the blazing fire were his only sources of comfort.

  Beads of sweat oozed from his forehead when he unholstered his Sig and laid it down on the desk beside him.

  What the hell...

  Holding his breath, John picked up the envelope and turned it over. The scarlet wax seal embossed with two cross keys caught his eye. He bit his lower lip when he broke the seal and carefully emptied the contents on the desk. A plain white business envelope, a copy of Matthew Fowler's CIA personnel file, and a dossier titled: Erik Söderström, slid out.

  At least it wasn't a bomb...

  John reached for his cup and sipped his tea. Rubbing his hands together, he laid all three items in a row in front of him.

  First things first...

  Using the letter opener in the top drawer he slit open the white envelope. Slowly, he scrutinized the letter once, then read it a second time committing to memory every sentence, phrase and word. That’s when he caught himself mumbling:

  1) Review Matthew Fowler's file code name MALLARD. Prepare to assume his identity.

  2) Review dossier on Swedish Agent Erik Söderström code name SCRIBE.

  3) On January 15 at 1800hrs CET, log into secure chatroom as MALLARD. Connect with SCRIBE to finalize plans for a dead drop scheduled for January 16 in Humlegården.

  4) Return to the USA with package immediately by any means necessary.

  NOTE: Check our shared file inside covchat for the link to connect with SCRIBE.

  Good luck,

  MEDUSA

  John palmed his hair and scooted back his chair, a bit confused.

  Why do I have to intercept the drop if MALLARD already made contact with SCRIBE?

  Leaning forward, he shuffled through the pages and glanced down at Matthew Fowler's file a second time. "I know this guy. We were in training together... and he works out of the Stockholm Station? Shit... and the building is not that far away..."

  He glanced out the window as if he could see the place from where he sat. Of course, he couldn’t. So he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. For a few minutes he thought about the details of the mission until a log in the fireplace shifted.

  Startled out of his thoughts, John picked up MALLARD's file and thumbed through it again. The first thing he noticed was that Matthew had been transferred from station to station several times and it stood out as a red flag. Digging deeper, he used his phone to Google Matt’s name, just to see if there was a news story or possibly a document of some kind that would provide more information. Curiously, nothing was mentioned.

  Maybe it’s just me…

  Thinking back, John remembered they had met in DC while training to be cyber analysts. They had been together every day for three months soon after John had been recruited. After class, Matt had always been the first at the bar and the last to leave. Not because he drank excessively — Matt just loved to talk.

  Shrugging, John closed the file and tossed it back on the desk. He already knew what the guy looked like, that he hailed from the Lone Star State, and spoke with an unforgettable Texas twang.

  What else do I need to know…

  Just to be sure he had thoroughly reviewed everything, John glanced over the instructions one more time, and his eyes lingered on the cross-keys stamped in the lower right corner. It was MEDUSA's 'no duress' indicator. More specifically, it meant no one was holding a gun to her head when she composed the message.

  Fuck... I need to shape up... I missed that on the wax seal.

  Pausing for a few beats, John ran his fingers over the pieces of the seal and sipped his tea. Suddenly, he was heartened by what he saw. At least the old monsignor did send him a signal. One he should have caught.

  I guess I still have a lot to learn...

  After repositioning his chair in front of the desk, this time John reached for Söderström's dossier and opened it again. As he read the second page of the agent’s personal history summary, the yellow phone on the desk jingled. The floor clock was striking twelve. Smiling to himself he lifted the receiver.

  I bet that's the dining room calling to see if I'm joining them for lunch...

  The night before after dinner he and Liam, an Englishman — stout, middle-aged, thick British accent — had lingered around the fireplace in the lobby to discuss global politics. But today he had more important things to do, and Liam was not the type to take 'no' for an answer. So, John decided not to meet the small group visiting the hostel. Instead, he asked to have his marinated salmon and dill mashed potatoes brought to his room.

  Pouring himself another cup of tea, John waited for footfalls in the hall outside. Sure enough, it wasn't long before the wooden planks squeaked, and he covered his Sig with the manila envelope before answering the door. A young woman with shoulder length brownish hair and cute dimples stood holding his tray. Her eyes glistened when John offered her an American twenty dollar bill. Currently, the exchange rate was in her favor. As he took the tray, she politely slid the bill from his hand and thanked him before she went on her way.

  After savoring the salmon while seated at the desk, John brushed the dossier aside and picked up Matt's file again and put it back down. Something about reading his friend's personal life seemed wrong.

  I feel like
I'm sneaking a peek at Matt's diary without his permission... But I must...

  This time, John studied the pictures of Matt more closely. "His nose is larger than mine, and he still wears those goofy glasses that make him look like Clark Kent," John chuckled to himself. That left him with one problem. The nose he could create from his disguise kit. The glasses, however, were going to be a challenge.

  I'll tackle that later...

  After laying Matt's file aside, he lifted the dossier and a loose picture slid out on the desk — a glossy the size of a passport photo. Under the lamplight, John studied Söderström's features closely and discovered SCRIBE had light wavy hair and a beard; a thin nose and full lips.

  He looks like every other male Swede in their forties I've seen around here...

  After reviewing photos of his Swedish Security Service record, the only thing that stood out was how all but two of Söderström missions had been successful.

  Söderström is a damn good agent. So what are these guys doing? And why?

  John crossed his arms over his chest and peered out the window into the fading light. Resting his feet on the desk, he began making a mental list of what he needed to do. The chatroom would be easy...

  Let SCRIBE do all the typing... The only problem is I don't know what has been planned already if anything...

  Before long, John shivered and pulled his sweater around his frame glancing toward the fireplace. The fire had gone from golden flames licking the logs to small embers glowing red. “No wonder it's cold as death in here."

  John got up and set his teacup on the counter, walked to the tiled hearth and picked up another log. Moving the screen aside, he gently laid the wood on the other charred log using the poker to uncover the rosy ember.

  Come on.... burn, baby burn...

  By the time the clock struck five, the log had caught fire, and outside the sky had turned purple. Returning to the desk, John reviewed the files one more time, before he closed the drapes and double-locked the door.

  Let's get this show on the road...

  Stretching his neck from side to side, John watched as the red light at the top of the screen turned green. When the hands on the antique clock clicked into place and struck six times, the screen blinked and the covchat link opened.

  With his fingers poised on the keyboard, John waited for something to happen. He had only used covchat on a few occasions, and each time it was a new experience. Once, red letters had appeared against a black screen. Another time, the screen was white with green and purplish fonts. Today, however; it was entirely different.

  John watched amazed, as an eagle took shape in the upper left corner of his screen and flew toward him until all he could see was the bird's face. It stopped and peered at him, blinking its eyes. Then a text box opened at the bottom of the screen and requested John's password. When he typed MALLARD, the eagle flew away and exited in the lower right corner leaving a black screen with two text boxes — one was labeled SCRIBE, the other MALLARD.

  As planned, John waited for Söderström to begin the conversation. And after a brief greeting, SCRIBE informed John he was against the dead drop in Humlegården, a park on the northeast side of Stockholm, due to an impending blizzard forecasted for January 16.

  SCRIBE worried he would not be able to cover his footsteps in the snow that led to the drop site — a hole under a gnarly birch tree root — leaving them both at risk. Instead, he proposed the two men should do a hand-off in front of the Nobel Museum at 1000hrs.

  With few words, John agreed and asked him what he would be wearing. SCRIBE informed him the only identifier he planned to have on was a yellow Tiger Sweden beanie. That's when John decided; likewise, he would wear a green one. Before the two covert spies working different sides of the street signed-off,

  SCRIBE wrote: WHEN WILL I GET PAID?

  MALLARD answered: ASAP.

  There was no mention of pay in my instructions… I guess that’s not up to me…

  Aware he only had a few hours to shop for a pair of glasses and a green beanie, John snapped his laptop closed. Hurriedly, he grabbed his coat. Turning up his collar he jammed his hands in the coat pockets while trudging south against the wind on Svartmangatan.

  TIME CHECK: 1845.

  Chapter Three

  STOCKHOLM SWEDEN

  JANUARY 16

  TIME CHECK: 0715hrs

  John leaned forward in the desk chair and laced up his boots. While visualizing the handoff with SCRIBE, an electric excitement lingered in his chest. Last night, he had gone to sleep playing and replaying scenarios in his mind about how the mission would unfold. Even in the short time he had worked for PANDORA, John learned one issue was a given.

  Expect the unexpected...

  Hastily, John gathered the items on his desk and slid them into his backpack along with his computer and the few earthly possessions he had brought from home. He followed the worn trail in the shaggy Scandinavian rug to the coat rack beside the door and grabbed his black parka. Before zipping it up, John inserted the clip into his pistol and slid it inside the shoulder holster.

  Yep, fully loaded...

  In the filmy mirror, he caught sight of his light eyes while pulling the green Tiger Sweden beanie over his sable hair. It had become second nature to look and see if he left anything behind before checking out of a hotel. Glancing over his shoulder, he took one last look.

  What am I missing?

  One side of his mouth curled into a smile when he noticed the charger to his computer was still on the desk. Coiling the cord around his palm, John stashed it inside his pack and switched off the desk lamp before closing the door to room 205.

  On his way out through the lobby, he heard a familiar voice calling him. "Marshall. Hey, Marshall..." From behind, Liam clapped him on the back with his thick palm. "Top of the morning to you. How about let's have a coffee before you leave? I wouldn't be in any hurry if I were you, it's bloody cold out there."

  John nodded and kept walking. "I'll see you tonight. I have an appointment, and I can't be late. But thanks for the offer."

  "Uh, okay," Liam grunted and went back inside.

  Quickly, John stepped out into the sub-freezing temperatures, and it wasn't long before the cold began taking its toll. Already, John's feet were starting to tingle, and his cheeks stung. Hunching further inside his parka, he wrapped the red scarf around his neck and tugged the beanie down over his ears. That was when he caught sight of a gray Saab parked across the street with the motor running.

  Is he watching for me, or just staying out of the cold?

  Hustling on, John ignored the icy grip that squeezed at his gut. Even though the Nobel Museum was less than three blocks from Nilsson's Hostel, it would take him three hours crisscrossing the streets of the tiny island to ensure no one was following him. But he had learned to stay positive in situations like this and was reminded every mission came with the fear of failure, whether it was in the Iranian desert or the streets of Barcelona. To counter the negativity, John had trained himself to compartmentalize any doubts. In the past, the moment he stepped into the street that fear had always faded away. And today was no different.

  Watch for repeats, same vehicles, same faces...

  Headed north along Svartmangatan, John held his breath when the bitter diesel fumes from lorries and delivery vans swirled around him. Not long after the trucks rumbled on, John clenched his jaw when the sidewalk disappeared for a stretch in the old city forcing him to slow his pace to avoid being hit. His exhales marked as puffy clouds came with every other step as John rounded the corner onto Tyska brinken.

  Time Check: 0737

  Stay vigilant and keep moving...

  A few blocks ahead to the northwest, he could see the frozen Baltic archipelago laid out before him like a crisp white sheet at the feet of the dark urban skyline of Katrina Sofia. As he moved on, the sounds of the bleak morning registered around him; the crunching of ice between tires and pavement, and an occasional beep from a car horn.
But the moment the carillon in the tower of St. Gertrude's Church chimed the hymn Nun danker all Gott, Thank We All Our God, he knew it was 0800.

  I'm on time...

  John's cadence along the narrow walkway was regular, blending with others on their way to work. At the next cross street, he headed north for a block before turning east. That was when he noticed a gray Saab appeared up ahead and paused. The driver turned to face him before slowly motoring on.

  That's the same car that was parked out in front of Nilsson's Hostel... That bastard is tailing me.

  Thirty feet ahead, he spotted the sign: Josef's Haberdashery and picked up his pace. Inside the shop, John spoke to the same clerk he had the evening before, "God morgon, good morning. Are you still holding that down vest for me?" John asked in perfect Swedish.

  "Of course, sir. It's right here under the counter." The light haired Swede with a scruffy beard smiled. "Your receipt please."

  The smell of fresh coffee from a pot brewing on a table in the corner tempted him to pause for a few minutes for a quick pick-me-up. Instead, John unzipped his pack, pulled out the proof of purchase and asked if he could try it on. Nodding, the clerk handed him the vest and gestured toward the fitting room.

  John smiled to himself as he pulled the curtain closed before removing his parka and shoulder holster. Snapping the extra-large vest tightly against his chest, he repositioned his weapon over it and drew a red and gray jacquard scarf from his pack — leaving the bright red one he had worn on the bench.

  Time Check: 0816.

  Shit, I'm one minute behind schedule...

  It took less than ten seconds after he heard the jingling of the bell at the front counter and the clerk chatting with another customer for John to rustle his way around racks of clothing to the back door. Careful not to slip on the ice, he headed south on Västerlånggatan crisscrossing from one side of the street to the other at every other block. This time with heavier footfalls and a shorter stride — completing phase one of his transformation from John Seal, to MALLARD.

  At the crosswalk, John held his breath and pulled his hood closer to his face when the gray Saab pulled up in front of him and stopped, waiting for the light to change. His right hand inched down the zipper before pressing his palm against the grip of the Sig Sauer. John had an easy shot through the passenger's window, but the agent was busy searching the street ahead. When the light turned green, the Saab lurched forward following the shallow troughs in the ice and motoring on.