Swedish Drop Page 6

  Take your time as any other customer would...

  At first, he jumped when a soft voice from behind him asked, "Looking for something special? Sorry about the noise outside. Someone probably got caught shoplifting."

  When he glanced over his shoulder at a woman with dark hair and kind eyes, he went with the opportunity that provided him cover — at least for the moment. Hoping he didn't look like a disheveled homeless person with all he owned on his back, John replied, "Yes. Can you suggest a nice leather laptop bag? And I'm also looking for a new ski parka."

  When she handed him a conservatively priced accessory he nodded and slipped the laptop out of his parka. "Perfect," he said, "Now what about the jacket?"

  "Follow me."

  As he slid the computer inside the bag they paused at the second rack. She asked him his size and held up a red one with a fur-lined hood. “Red is not my color. Do you have it in black?"

  The busty clerk stepped to another display and found the one he wanted and in less than a minute John was standing at the checkout counter digging in his pocket for the cash. Before she had time to fold the coat, the crackle from a police radio squelch break filtered in.

  They're coming inside...

  "Hey, do you mind if I use your restroom before I go?"

  That always works…. They can’t say ‘no.’

  She smiled and gestured down the hall just as two patrolmen approached the counter and asked if they could have a look around. John locked the restroom door, let down his hood, and peered in the mirror discovering a scratch on his face and a gash over his right ear — blood was caked on the side of his left hand. Twisting the spigot, he splashed his face clean and wiped off his hands. But the cut on his head was still oozing blood.

  Use the beanie...

  John found the black beanie he had brought from Chicago stuffed inside a pocket. Slipping it over his head, he began pressing it against his cut. When the bleeding stopped, he grabbed his passport, and changed coats — ditching the old one in the trash bin.

  Inside the mall, he stopped short and glanced around. Reassured, John pulled the fur hood closer around his face and weaved through the shoppers making his way toward the escalator.

  At the second floor he approached the mall directory, and smiled to himself. A yellow dot marked the spot that indicated 'You are Here’. And he noted the train station was only a few blocks to the east. But as John stepped away suddenly a thick fingered mall guard gripped his bicep.

  "May I see some identification please?" John turned to see a sandy haired mail guard give him a hard look.

  How the hell did I miss him...

  "Sure." John pulled his passport from his vest. "Is there a problem?"

  "Just show me your ID!"

  John opened Marshall Hurst's passport and handed it to him. First, the guard peered at the photo and scrutinized John's features. But before he handed it back the guard squinted, and asked, "Where did you get that scratch on your face… And it looks like you have a bruise on your lip."

  "Oh, well that. I was collecting firewood and got cut." John smiled as his hand moved closer to his chest — his Sig was within easy reach.

  I can’t take him out in the middle of a mall…

  "What brings you to Stockholm? And where were you gathering firewood?"

  "I came to visit the Nelson Mandela exhibit at the Nobel Museum. And I was…”

  "I see." The guard pressed on his earpiece listening to a call while handing John his passport. "Be careful... busy night," he said and rushed toward the down escalator.

  John dashed in the opposite direction and glanced at his watch.

  Time Check: 1646.

  Chapter Eight

  STOCKHOLM SWEDEN

  JANUARY 18

  TIME CHECK: 1647hrs

  John peered over his shoulder checking his six more than once before picking up his pace through the shopping mall. Satisfied the guard was not tailing him, he gripped the computer bag and followed the blue signs with arrows pointing toward the train station.

  Ahead, a couple peered through the front window of a jewelry store. The woman with light hair gazed at a necklace and, with a mittened hand, covered her mouth to giggle. And with wide strides he moved on past an elderly couple walking arm in arm to steady themselves. For a moment the scened seemed quaint and normal. Then his skin prickled.

  A round blunt object pressed against his ribs —

  A surge of adrenaline shot through him as the profile of a man wearing a trapper hat and dark-framed glasses appeared in his peripheral vision. "Let's not make a scene. Hand over the laptop, and you can go your separate way," Matt Fowler whispered poking him with the barrel of a pistol.

  "Don't you recognize me?”

  Matt did a double take. "John?"

  "Hello, my old friend."

  "What? Who are you working for and what are you doing here?"

  Good question...

  “You first.” John eyed the fountain ahead as a perfect place to create a diversion.

  Fowler leaned in and whispered, “Don't put me to the test. I’d hate to shoot you even if you’re a company man… I’m still working out of the Stockholm Station."

  "Then why are you holding a gun on me?"

  Fowler laughed as if they shared a private joke. "You are interfering with my assignment. When I swept Ludvig’s office this afternoon, I got a ping on his phone. Someone’s listening device was actively recording our conversation. Now it’s obvious it was you…”

  “Maybe… What’s on the hard drive,” John asked.

  “You mean that file of names?”

  “Uh-huh..”

  “Of course. Lindqvist was supposed to hand it over to the CIA... me... after he received it from SCRIBE to avoid being personally embarrassed and to protect the Swedish Government from legal risk. We were tipped off by a friendly Chinese mole… who was found shot in the back of the head shortly after he sent his report to Langley that Lindqvist had a highly sensitive document?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have my connections,” Fowler smirked and continued. “As I'm sure you're aware, the file contains names and contacts of several cyber experts from around the world who are known for brokering their skills for the right price."

  Then why did Senator Daniels send me to intercept the handoff? Is Fowler lying?

  "Who killed the mole?" John glanced up at the clock suspended from the ceiling.

  "We don't know. The trail went cold."

  "What happened?"

  "Lindqvist got scared and agreed to meet with me in the park yesterday, but he left early… So, I went to his office this afternoon. After he talked his way out of why he left the day before, he finally told me the file was at home on his personal computer."

  "That was your mistake..."

  "Yeah, I figured it out when he carried his briefcase out to the car, and YOU hurriedly got in. That was when I knew I'd been double-crossed, and I would have to kill you both."

  "So... I'm curious. How did you follow us? Are you tied into the Stockholm surveillance system?"

  "Yes… That’s how I followed SCRIBE to what was suppose to be the hand-off… It's a great tool. The Swedes have cameras all over the city." Matt gave John a hard look. "But, you've thrown a monkey wrench in my plan."

  "I suppose so."

  John listened as his old friend ranted on as if there would be some amicable solution for their confrontation. But he knew the only way that would happen was if he turned Lindqvist's computer over to Fowler — and that was not an option. John's suspicions were verified when Matt said, "I got a proposition for you. Let's make this easy. Just give me the laptop... I'll hand it over to the Stockholm Station Manager. He's got direct orders from Langley."

  “Afraid that’s not good enough.”

  "We aren't really sure what we've got yet... only have a guesstimate of who is included. Our source tells us they suspect at least two of the mercenaries have been eliminated."

&n
bsp; "Eliminated by who?"

  "Possibly the British... MI6... If NOBLE was alive, he could answer that. So, surely you can understand how important it is that we get this to Langley.”

  God... this is worse than I imagined... Everyone who has knowledge of the file is a target... and their families...

  Hearing a reference to NOBLE, John sucked in a short breath and pressed his hand over the Berretta to block the hammer. Confident Fowler would not fire in the midst of a crowd he said, “Why don’t you let me finish my mission if that’s the case?"

  When Fowler turned to face him, John delivered a crushing headbutt between the agent's eyes smashing his glasses sending him staggering backward against a husky man carrying a shopping bag. Rubbing his forehead, Fowler mumbled an apology while John dashed around the fountain and ducked behind a pillar out of view.

  John scanned the area for an escape route and spotted the elevator only paces away and waited for a beat for the doors to open. When a woman dressed in a red coat stepped out, John rushed in and pressed the ‘down’ button. The door began to close.

  An arm thrust in between —

  John was flung against the stainless steel paneling by Fowler’s husky body so hard the light in the ceiling flickered. Gasping to catch his breath, he brushed one hand over the control panel and pressed the red emergency button. The elevator jolted to a stop just as John's knee connected with Fowler's groin followed by a long grunt from him.

  When Fowler raised the pistol to his head, John bit his hand sending the guy reeling. With the surprise working in John’s favor, he delivered a kick in Fowler’s belly causing the pistol to slip from his grip — John snatched the Beretta from between their feet and leveled it at his head. “Are you sure you don't want to reconsider your earlier offer? All you have to do is walk away… Sound familiar?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Thrusting John's arm aside, Fowler lunged pinning him against the wall again. He gripped John’s wrists.

  He's not giving up...

  Wrenching his forearm free, John aimed the Beretta at Fowler's temple. "We don't have to end our friendship like this..."

  "Yes, we do..."

  No, I can't...

  Fowler took a deep breath and crouched low ramming his shoulder into John's gut lifting him off his feet. While struggling to regain control, John squeezed the trigger. Sparks flew when the first round punctured the metal enclosure, and the other opened a hole in the floor. Fowler grabbed John's wrist wrestling the pistol free. Both men fell exchanging blow-for-blow. Groaning, Fowler reached for John's throat and tightened his grip.

  When John gouged his fingers into Fowler's eyes, he howled in pain and released his hold allowing John to throw him off. John quickly stood. Again, the men fought struggling to get the upper hand — a blow to the head in exchange for one to the gut until they both stood panting eyeing each other. Finally, Fowler gritted his teeth and reached inside his down vest pulling out a fixed blade.

  "Ah, a Gerber... my weapon of choice too... in a knife fight.”

  Now, every move came in slow motion as John thought out his next, and the next working to avoid the blade as it whistled through the air around him. John started low and thrust the heal of his hand into Fowler's chin causing him to stumble backward. Fowler lunged at him again. John dodged and grabbed his wrist. Fowler pulled away. They stopped to grab their breath.

  I have to wait for his next move... If I charge him, I'll get cut...

  The two men began circling each other. Then Fowler growled and stepped toward him with one foot. With bent knees, he spun around and swept the knife toward John's calves. But the blade missed when John leaped above it kneeing the agent in the nose.

  Blood splattered on the tile floor. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind John was grateful when the fire alarm rang, and the sprinklers came on. But before the two men could recover, the elevator doors opened at ground level facing the street.

  Seeing a team of mall guards running toward them, John snatched up the Beretta and took off down the sidewalk with Fowler close behind him. Even as the winds blustered against his chest, he leaned into the force. With legs pumping furiously John sprinted down the sidewalk hurdling over sheets of ice.

  As he approached an overpass, a train thundered above on its way to the station a block away. The sounds from the locomotive coupled with the echoes of the traffic motoring along Arsenalsgatan reminded John the mission was unfinished — he still had not escaped from Stockholm.

  MEDUSA had been clear. You have two days to leave the city... And it has already been more than forty-eight hours since our chat.

  When he slowed at a crosswalk, the quick footfalls that followed from behind drew closer.

  Fowler!... Run toward the park across the street. He can't shoot, I've got both weapons... But he'll try to run me down and grab the prize... That's what he's been trained to do...

  While John zigzagged through the traffic heading for a giant fir tree laden with snow, a few horns blared and tires squealed. He turned just in time to see —

  A white Volvo swerve to its right —

  Brakes locking, and its horn tooting repeatedly.

  John closed his eyes.

  'Thud' —

  Peeking through half-closed lids, John witnessed Matt's head smash against the pavement and he heard a groan before the car's left wheel rolled over his old friend as the car sped away. Standing beside that fir tree, John bent over, not only to catch his breath, but to control his urge to retch.

  Matt couldn’t see, his glasses were broken… Or? God...

  As a crowd gathered, John gripped the computer bag and dashed down the sidewalk toward Central Station past a five-story brick apartment building, past a bank with high glass windows. The edge of the canvas canopy flapped as if it were shooing him along — urging him to hurry.

  No not this...

  Just ahead, two men were treading shoulder to shoulder along the sidewalk pushing snowblowers. John had read in the Dagens Nyheter that Stockholm always cleared the sidewalks of snow and ice before the streets. Undeterred, John darted around the men and ignored the sirens as he raced toward the train station.

  Glancing at his watch, John clenched and unclenched his fists.

  It's 1755...

  Breathlessly, he descended the steps of Central Station two at a time and vaulted over a waist-high temporary barrier, brushing through a line at the concession stand. Still gripping the computer bag under his arm, he sprinted over the waxed floors toward the counter.

  The information board posted with departure and arrival times seemed a blur. And further down the counter, a ticket agent was sipping coffee studying a computer screen. John shook his head. His thoughts raced.

  "Hey, hey... can you help me?"

  The guy dressed in a smart blue blazer and black tie peered up at him with an obliging smile, "Sure what do you need."

  "I need to get on the next train out of Stockholm."

  Take a deep breath... focus...

  The guy pressed his elbows against the counter and clasped his hands together. At first, the agent said nothing while he eyed him up and down. John worked not to express a sigh of relief when the guy asked, "You're sweating... It's freezing outside... Are you alright?"

  "Yes. I'm just in a hurry to leave before the storm..."

  "Do you have a passport?"

  "Sure, but why do I need a passport to buy a train ticket?"

  "Because the only train leaving Stockholm this evening departs in two minutes and its destination is Oslo."

  "Oslo Norway?"

  "Yes."

  Jesus... I'll never get home...

  John dug into the pocket of his vest and pulled out Hurst's passport for the second time this evening. With the other hand, he reached for his money clip with several bills folded neatly together.

  "First or second class, sir?" The man asked as his fingers raced over the keyboard.

  "I don't care... First class will do..."

  "
That will be six hundred and eighty-seven kronor.”

  As the money fluttered to the top of the counter John grabbed the ticket and descended the steps to the platform. The conductor was bending down to pick up the stepstool in front of the train's door when John yelled, "Hold on! Just a minute!”

  Moving aside, the conductor plucked the ticket from John's hand. Just after he mounted the steps, there was a 'swish' followed by a 'psst' when the door closed behind them, and the train's brakes released.

  TIME CHECK: 1803

  Chapter Nine

  TRAIN TO OSLO

  JANUARY 18

  TIME CHECK: 1805hrs

  Moving down the central aisle of the first train car, John noticed it was almost full. To his left, a couple trying to console a crying infant glanced up at him with pleading eyes perhaps hoping he had a quick solution to their predicament. Winking at them as a sign of his unspoken encouragement, he moved on. Others were sleeping or watching a video on their tablets. A man with a neat beard removed his book from an adjacent seat and nodded for him to sit down. Instead, John smiled thinly, passing up the guys invitation and walked on with a tight grip on the leather bag.

  Too many people... I need some space... A safe place to unwind…

  Three cars ahead, he reached the restaurant where smells of hot food reminded him it had been hours since he had eaten. His mouth watered when he stopped at the counter and ordered a bagel and a cup of coffee.

  "Would you like this on a plate?" the cashier asked.

  "No thanks, I'm not planning to eat in here. And, ah... I need some cream and sugar too, please." John was surprised at the sound of his own voice — less strained or hurried.

  Carefully fitting a lid over his brew, John moved on to the next car and the next until he came to one completely empty and stopped in the area where the seats faced both ways with a table positioned inbetween. Setting down his food and drink, he stood and unzipped his parka, ready to eat and quiet his mind.