Kill Switch (9780062135285) (5 page)

6

March 8, 6:55
A.M.

Trans-­Siberian Railway

The next morning, Tucker arrived five minutes early to find Felice already seated at a booth in the rear of the dining car. For the moment, they had the space to themselves. This time of the year, the sun was still not up, just a rosy promise to the east.

Tucker walked over and sat down. “You're a morning person, I see.”

“Since I was a little girl, I'm afraid. It drove my parents quite mad. By the way, I ordered coffee for two, if you don't mind. I'm a much better morning person with caffeine in my system.”

“That makes two of us.”

The waiter arrived with a pair of steaming mugs and took their orders. Felice opted for the closest semblance to a standard big English breakfast. He nodded his approval, appreciating a woman with a good appetite. In turn, he chose an omelet with toasted black bread.

“You're the owner of that large hound, aren't you?” Felice asked. “The one that looks smarter than most ­people on this train.”

“Owner isn't the word I would use, but yes.” He offered up his ser­vice dog story, explaining about his epilepsy. “I don't know what I'd do without him.”

At least that last part was true.

“Where are you two headed?” she asked.

“I'm booked to Perm, but I'm flexible. Plenty to explore out here. We might get off and sightsee if the mood strikes us. And you?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Is that an invitation?”

He gave her a shrug that was noncommittal with a hint of invitation, which only widened her smile.

She skirted over to tamer topics. “As to me, I'm headed to Moscow, off to meet some friends from my university days.”

“You went to school there?”

“Goodness, no. Cambridge. Arts and humanities.
Hinc lucem et pocula sacra
and all that.
From here
,
light and sacred draughts.
Latin motto. Very highbrow, you see. Two of my girlfriends moved to Moscow last year. We're having a small reunion.”

“You boarded in Khabarovsk?”

“Yes. And almost got run over in the parking lot for my trouble. A big black car.”

“I remember hearing some honking, saw some commotion. Was that them?”

She nodded. “Three men, dressed like old-­school KGB thugs. Quite gloomy looking. Very rude, marching around the platform like they owned the place, flashing their badges.”

Tucker struggled to keep his brow from furrowing. “Sounds like the police. Perhaps they were looking for someone.”

She took a dismissive sip of coffee. “I can only imagine.”

“It's not you, is it? I'm not having breakfast with an international art thief?”

She laughed, tilting her head back and slightly to the side. “Oh, my cover has been blown. Stop the train at once.”

He smiled. “According to my guide, Khabarovsk's Fedotov Gallery is a must-­see for art connoisseurs. Especially for any sightseeing arts and humanities graduates from Cambridge. I almost wish I'd gotten off the train to go. Did you visit?”

She nodded, her eyes shining. “Absolutely stunning. Wish I'd had more time myself. You must go back sometime. And you, Mr. Wayne, what's your secret? What do you do when you're not traipsing around Siberia?”

“International art thief,” he replied.

“Ah, I thought as much.”

He patted his jacket pocket. “Excuse me,” he said and pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen. “Text from my brother.”

He opened the phone's camera application and surreptitiously snapped a shot of Felice's face. He studied the screen for a few more seconds, pretended to type a response, then returned the phone to his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said. “My brother's getting married in a month, and he's put me in charge of his bachelor party. His wife is worried it's going to be too risqué.”

Felice raised an eyebrow. “And is it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Men,” she said, laughing, and reached across the table and gave his forearm a squeeze.

8:35
A.M.

After finishing breakfast and lingering over coffee for another half hour, the two parted company with a promise to share another meal before Tucker disembarked at Perm.

Once free, he returned quickly to his berth, pulled out his satellite phone, and speed-­dialed the new number Painter Crowe had given him. It was answered immediately.

“Tucker Wayne, I presume,” a female voice answered.

“Ruth Harper.”

“Correct.” Harper's speech was clipped, precise, but somehow not quite curt. There was also a distinct southern accent there, too.

“What do you have for me?” Harper asked.

“No
nice to meet you
or
how are you
?”

“Nice to meet you. How are you? How's that? Warm and fuzzy enough for you?”

“Marginally,” Tucker replied.

As he paced the small space, he tried to picture what she looked like. She sounded young, but with a bite at the edges that spoke of some toughness.
Maybe late thirties
. But he knew Sigma operatives had prior military experience, and Harper was likely no exception, so some of that
toughness
could be from hard lessons learned young, an early maturity gained under fire. From her seriousness, he imagined her dark-­haired, wearing glasses, a battle-­weary librarian.

He smiled inwardly at that image.

“So what's your take on the situation?” she asked.

“I think I've picked up a tail.”

“Why do you think that, Captain Wayne?” Her tone grew grave with a trace of doubt.

“Just call me Tucker,” he said and explained about the leather-­jacketed men on the Khabarovsk train platform and Felice's insistence they were flashing badges.

“And they weren't?” Harper asked.

“No. They were just showing a photograph. I'm sure of it. She also claims she visited the Fedotov Gallery in Khabarovsk. It's been closed for renovations for the past month.”

“And you know this detail how?”

“There's not much else to do on this train but sleep and read travel brochures.”

“Anything else that makes you suspicious of her?”

“She's pretty, and she finds me fascinating.”

“That certainly is odd. Are you sure she's in possession of her faculties?”

He smiled at her matter-­of-­fact tone. “Funny.”

He decided he might—­
might
—­like Ruth Harper.

“Your accent,” Tucker said. “Tennessee?”

She ignored his attempt to draw her out, but from the exasperated tone of her next words, he guessed he was wrong about Tennessee.

“Give me Felice's pedigree,” she said, staying professional.

Tucker passed on the information he had gleaned: her name, her background at the University of Cambridge, her friends in Moscow. “And I have a picture. I assume your wizards have access to facial-­recognition programs.”

“Indeed we do.”

“I'm sending it now.”

“Okay, sit tight and I'll get back to you.”

It didn't take long. Harper called back within forty minutes.

“Your instinct was sound,” she said without preamble. “But you've picked up
more
than a tail. She's a freelance mercenary.”

“I knew it was too good to be true,” he muttered. “Let's hear it.”

“Her real name is Felice Nilsson, but she's traveling under Felice Johansson. Swedish citizenship. She's thirty-­three, born in Stockholm to a wealthy family. She didn't graduate from Cambridge, but from University of Gothenburg, with a master's in fine arts and music. And here's where things get interesting. Six months after graduating, she joined the Swedish Armed Forces and eventually ended up in
Särskilda Inhämtningsgruppen
.”

“SIG?”

As a member of the U.S. Special Forces, Tucker had to know the competition, both allied and enemy alike. SIG was the Swedish Special Reconnaissance Group. Its operatives were trained in intelligence gathering, reconnaissance, and covert surveillance, along with being superb, hardened soldiers.

“She was one of the group's first female members,” Harper added.

“What was her specialty?”

“Sniper.”

Great.

“I urge you to approach her with extreme caution.”

“Caution? Never would have thought of that.”

Harper let out what could be taken as a soft chuckle, but it disappeared so quickly that Tucker couldn't be sure.

“Point taken,” she said. “But do not underestimate her. After six years in the SIG, Nilsson resigned her commission. Eight months later, she started popping up on intel radars, first working small-­time stuff as a mercenary, mostly for established groups. Then, two years ago, she struck out on her own, forming her own team—­all former Swedish Special Forces. Last estimate put her roster at six to eight, including herself.”

“Bored rich girl goes rogue,” Tucker said.

“Maybe that's how it started, but she's got a real taste for it now. And a solid reputation. For now, the question remains,
Who hired her and why?
”

“You're in a better position to answer that than I am. But this must have something to do with your operation. Otherwise, it would be about me personally, and that doesn't seem likely.”

“Agreed.”

“And if that's true, if they're already on my tail, I don't have to tell you what that means.”

“We've got a leak,” Harper replied. “Word of your involvement must have reached those who are hunting for Dr. Bukolov.”

“But who leaked that information? For the moment, let's assume it didn't come from anyone inside Sigma command. So who in Russia had my itinerary? Who knew I'd be aboard this train.”

“The only person with that information was the contact you're supposed to meet in Perm.”

“Who's that?”

She didn't answer immediately, and Tucker knew why. If Felice Nilsson got her hands on Tucker, the less he knew, the less he could divulge.

“Forget I asked,” he said. “So the leak is either my contact or someone he told.”

“Most likely,” she agreed. “Either way, it has to be Abram Bukolov they're after. But the fact that Ms. Nilsson is on that train rather than out in Perm, pursuing our contact, that tells us something.”

“It tells us whoever is paying her wants this to play out for some reason. This isn't all about Bukolov himself. Maybe it's something he has . . . something he knows.”

“Again, I agree. And trust me when I tell you this: I don't know what that could be. When he contacted us, he was tight-­lipped. He told us only enough to make sure we'd get him out.” A moment of contemplative silence stretched, then she asked, “What's your plan? How do you want to play this?”

“Don't know yet. Assuming those leather jackets I saw at Khabarovsk were hers, they were in a hurry, and I think I know why. The next stop on this route is at the city of Chita, a major hub, where trains spread out in every direction. They had to tag me in Khabarovsk or risk losing me.”

“Do you think her men got aboard?”

“I don't think so, but I'll have a look around. I wonder if part of their job was a distraction—­a spectacle to let Felice slip aboard without fuss.”

“Either way, you can bet she's in contact with them. You said there were no other stops before Chita?”

“Afraid not.” Tucker checked his watch. “We'll arrive in two and a half days. I'm going to check the route map. If the train slows below thirty miles per hour, and the terrain is accommodating, we can roll off. It's the surest way to shake Felice off my trail.”

“You're getting into the mountains out there, Tucker. Take care you don't tumble off a cliff.”

“Glad to know you care, Harper.”

“Just worried about the dog.”

He smiled, warming up to this woman. His image of the battle-­weary librarian was developing some softer edges, including a glint of dark amusement in her eyes.

“As to Felice Nilsson,” she continued, “don't kill her unless you have to.”

“No promises, Harper, but I'll keep you posted.”

He disconnected and looked down at Kane, who was upright in his seat by the window. “How does a little backcountry romp sound to you, my friend?”

Kane tilted his head and wagged his tail.

So it's unanimous.

As the train continued chugging west toward Chita, Tucker spent the remainder of the day strolling the train, twice bumping into Felice. They chatted briefly. Both times she deftly probed him about his plans.

Would he be heading directly on to Perm?

What would he do when he got there?

Which hotel had he booked?

He deflected his way through her questioning with lies and vague responses. Then he spent the rest of the afternoon seeking an easy place to jump from the train.

Unlike Hollywood portrayals, one could not simply open a window or slip out between cars. While in motion, all the train's exits were locked, either directly or behind secure doors. Such security left Tucker with two choices. Either he remained aboard and attempted to shake loose of Felice at the Chita station, where she likely already had accomplices lying in wait—­or he discovered a way to get through those locked exits and leap blindly from the train in the dead of night.

Not great choices.

Still, in the end, he had little trouble making the decision, leaning upon his military training and mind-­set. It came down to a simple adage drilled into him as an army ranger.

Act, don't react.

7

March 8, 11:03
P.M.

Trans-­Siberian Railway

With the night darkening the berth's windows, Tucker made his final preparations. He had spent the last few hours of daylight walking through his plan, both mentally and physically, rehearsing his movements, along with timing and tracing the routines of the staff.

After one final task—­a bit of breaking and entering—­he called Ruth Harper.

“Did you get the photos I took of Felice's papers?”

Earlier in the day, he had snuck into her berth while she was out. He rifled carefully through her bags and compartments, discovering four passports, her credit cards, and a Swedish driver's license. He took photos of them all with his cell phone, left the room as tidy as he had entered it, and sent them to Sigma command. He wanted to know all he could about his opponent.

“Yes, we got the pictures and are running them through our databases.”

“Hopefully, by the time you finish that, whatever you find will be irrelevant.” Because he didn't plan to still be on the train by then. “In forty minutes, the train will have to slow down for a hairpin turn along the river outside Byankino.”

“Which is
where
exactly in the vast expanse that is Siberia?”

“About three hundred miles east of Chita. A lot of small villages lie nearby and even more forest. That means lots of territory to lose ourselves in.”

“I assume you don't mean that literally. The downside of such isolation is that you're going to have trouble finding transportation to Perm—­at least low-­visibility transport.”

“I think I've got an idea about that.”

“You know the saying:
No plan survives first contact with the enemy
.”

Tucker pictured Felice's face. “We've already made contact with the enemy. So it's time to get proactive.”

“Your call. You're on the scene. Good luck with—­”

From the door to his berth came a light knocking.

“I've got company,” he said. “I'll call when I can. In the meantime, nothing to our friend in Perm, agreed?”

He didn't want his new itinerary—­improvised as it was—­leaked out to the wrong ears.

“Understood,” Harper acknowledged.

He disconnected, walked to the door, and slid it open.

Felice leaned against the frame. “I trust it's not past your bedtime?”

The expression on her face was one of coy invitation. Not too much, but just enough.

Well practiced,
he guessed.

“I was just reading Kane a bedtime story.”

“I had hoped you'd join me for a late-­night snack.”

Tucker checked his watch. “The dining car is closed.”

Felice smiled. “I have a secret cache in my berth. We could debate the literary merits of
Anna Karenina
.”

When Tucker didn't immediately reply, Felice let a little sparkle into her eye and turned up the corners of her mouth ever so slightly.

She was very good, doing her best to keep her quarry close.

“Okay,” he said. “Give me ten minutes. Your berth is . . . ?”

“Next car up, second on the left.”

He closed the door, then turned to Kane. “Plans have changed, pal. We're going
now
.”

Kane jumped off his seat. From beneath it, Tucker pulled free the shepherd's tactical vest and secured it in place. Next he opened his wardrobe, hauled out his already-­prepped rucksack, and shoved his cold-­weather gear—­jacket, gloves, cap—­into the top compartment.

Once ready, Tucker slowly slid open his berth door and peeked out. To the right, the direction of Felice's berth, the corridor was clear. To the left, an elderly ­couple stood at the window, staring out at the night.

With Kane at his heels, Tucker stepped out, slid the door shut behind him, and strode past the ­couple with a polite nod. He pushed through the glass connector door, crossed the small alcove between the two carriages, and pushed into the next sleeper car. The corridor ahead was thankfully empty.

Halfway down, he stopped and cocked his head. Kane was looking back in the direction they'd come.

Somewhere a door had opened, then banged shut.

“Come on,” Tucker said and kept walking.

He crossed through the next sleeper car and reached a glass door at the end. Beyond it, he spotted the small alcove that connected this carriage with the baggage coach.

As he touched the door handle, a voice rose behind him, from the far end of the corridor. “Tucker?”

He recognized her voice but didn't turn. He slid open the door.

“Tucker, where are you going? I thought we were—­”

He stepped into the alcove with Kane and slid the glass door closed behind him. The shepherd immediately let out a low growl.

Danger.

Tucker swung around and locked eyes with a porter sharing the same cramped space, standing in the shadows off to the side. He immediately recognized the man's hard face, along with his deadly expression. It was one of Felice's team. The man had exchanged his black leather duster for a porter's outfit. Equally caught by surprise, the man lunged for his jacket pocket.

Tucker didn't hesitate, kicking out with his heel, striking the man in the solar plexus. He fell back into the bulkhead, hitting his skull with a crack and slumping to the floor, knocked out.

He reached into the man's pocket and pulled out a Walther P22 semiautomatic; the magazine was full, one round in the chamber, the safety off. He reengaged the safety and shoved the P22 into his own belt, then rummaged through the man's clothes until he found a key ring and an identification badge.

The picture it bore didn't match the slack face before him, but Tucker recognized the photo. It was the porter who had shyly petted Kane when they had first boarded. With a pang of regret, he knew the man was likely dead. Felice and company were playing hardball.

Tucker took the keys, spun, and locked the connector door just as Felice reached it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, feigning concern, a hand at her throat. “Did you hurt that poor man?”

“He'll be fine. But what about the
real
porter?”

Doubt flickered in Felice's eyes. “You're talking crazy. Just come out and we can—­”

“Your English accent is slipping, Ms. Nilsson.”

Felice's face changed like a passing shadow, going colder, more angular. “So what's your plan then, Mr. Wayne?” she asked. “Jump from the train and go where? Siberia is hell. You won't last a day.”

“We love a challenge.”

“You won't make it. We'll hunt you down. Work with me instead. The two of us together, we can—­”

“Stop talking,” he growled.

Felice shut her mouth, but her eyes were sharp with hatred.

Tucker stepped away from the door and unlocked the baggage car. He pointed inside and touched Kane's side. “S
CENT.
B
LOOD.
R
ETURN.”

His partner trotted into the darkened space. After ten seconds, Kane let out an alert whine. He reappeared at Tucker's side and sat down, staring back into the baggage car.

Tucker now knew the true fate of the unfortunate porter.

“We're leaving,” he said to Felice. “If you're lucky, no one will find the body before you reach Chita.”

“Who's to say you didn't kill him?” Felice said. “He caught you burglarizing the baggage car, you killed him, then jumped from the train. I'm a witness.”

“If you want to draw that kind of attention to yourself, be my guest.”

Tucker turned, stepped over the limp body of her partner, and entered the baggage car, closing the door behind him.

Kane led him to the porter's body. The man had been shoved under a set of steel bulkhead shelves. Judging from the bruising, he had been strangled to death.

“I'm sorry,” Tucker murmured.

He donned his jacket, gloves, and cap, then slung his rucksack over his shoulder. At the rear of the car, he used the porter's keys to unlock the metal door. It swung open, and a rush of wind shoved him sideways. The rattling of the train's wheels filled his ears.

Directly ahead was the caboose door.

With Kane following closely, Tucker stepped onto the open platform, shut the door behind him, then unlocked the caboose and stepped into the last car. He hurried across to the rear, through the last door—­and a moment later, they were at the tail end of the Trans-­Siberian Express, standing on a railed catwalk.

Beneath them, tracks flashed past. The sky was clear and black and studded with stars. To their right, a slope led to a partially frozen river; to their left, scattered snowdrifts. The locomotive was chugging up a slight grade, moving well below its average speed, but still much faster than Tucker would have liked.

He tugged the collar of his jacket up around his neck against the frigid night.

At his knee, Kane wagged his tail, excited. No surprise there. The shepherd was ready to go, come what may. Tucker knelt and cupped Kane's head in both of his hands, bringing his face down close.

“Who's a good boy?”

Kane leaned forward, until their noses touched.

“That's right. You are.”

It was a routine of theirs.

Standing but keeping a grip on Kane's vest collar, Tucker navigated the catwalk steps until they were only a few feet above the racing ground. He poked his head past the caboose's side, looking forward, waiting, watching, until he saw a particularly thick snowdrift approaching.

“Ready, boy?” he said. “We're gonna jump! Steady now . . . steady . . .”

The snowdrift flashed into view. Tucker tossed his rucksack out into the darkness.

“G
O
, K
ANE
! J
UMP
!”

Without hesitation, the shepherd leaped out into the night.

Tucker waited a beat, then followed.