The Cold Edge (7 page)

He quietly went upstairs. About to use the viewer again, he realized he didn't need to do so. The peep hole was around crotch level. What were the odds of. . .

Getting to his knees and placing the viewer over the hole, he saw his little friend scurry across from one side of the room to the next. The lock was a piece of crap. In less than thirty seconds he had it unlocked, and with a quick shove he was inside.

Dixon's eyes got big when he saw McLean enter. The little guy's legs shuffled toward the kitchen, but McLean caught him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back into the living room.

“What the hell,” Dixon yelled.

McLean threw him onto a battered and torn sofa and loomed over the man. “This doesn't look like Aberdeen.”

“I had to stop by here and knock one off with the old lady. I'm a little guy but I got big needs.”

McLean glanced about the room and saw that everything there was feminine. Flower pillows, dainty doilies, a knock off tiffany lamp. “I thought you might be a little light in the loafers.”

“This coming from a guy who frequently wears a dress?”

“It's my clan kilt you fugly troll.”

“Jesus. Back to the short jokes.”

He felt like pummeling this little dwarf. But he needed him.

“How'd you find me anyway?” Dixon asked, genuinely confused.

“We have our ways, Gary. But I'm guessing your contact, if there is a contact, is not in Aberdeen. You're gonna take me to him now. Let's go.” He waved his hand toward the door.

Dixon hesitated and then shoved his short legs over the side of the couch and hit the floor. “All right. All right. You got me, big guy. I was gonna call ya.”

“Sure.”

They left and went down to McLean's Rover.

Settled into the passenger seat, Dixon said, “Nice ride. Leather seats for MI-5? You must be a big shot there.”

“This is my private auto,” McLean said, cranking it over and pulling out onto the deserted street. “Nice neighborhood.”

“Hey, my people have been repressed since the beginning of time. Can't get a decent job. Can't get a nice place without that. Everyone tries their best to keep the little guy down.”

“But you're not a tiny bit bitter.”

“Screw you.”

McLean drove nowhere slow.

“You gonna tell me where to go?” McLean asked.

Dixon smiled.

“Better yet. Give me directions to your friend's place.”

“He's got a kiosk down in The Barras.”

Great. The Barras was a market in Glasgow where one could get just about anything, including mugged. Kiosks and booths lined the streets, which had been closed off. Many of the items were of questionable legality. It took them a half hour to get there.

McLean got out, made sure his wallet was securely buttoned into his back pocket, and checked his gun under his left arm. A comfort. For every step he took, Dixon took four.

They found the kiosk, which sold everything from Scottish trinkets to Troll dolls. McLean noticed he even had his clan crest on key rings and coffee mugs. The man behind the counter was much older than Dixon, but around the same height. Only this guy's gut was bigger than his head. He had built a ledge that ran the length of the booth, putting him close to McLean's level.

“This is the guy,” the kiosk man said. His voice came out like it traveled across broken glass.

“Yeah,” Dixon said. “Tell him what you told me.”

“What about a little consideration?”

“So, you want me to pay you by the inch? Or the quality of the information?”

“You were right, Gary. He's pretty funny for a big guy.”

McLean glanced around and finally pulled out a combo cell phone slash PDA, caught a signal, touched in a figure, and closed the browser. “There. I just transferred some money to Dixon's bank account.”

“You're shittin' me, right?” the kiosk man said.

“Dead serious.”

“You can check the balance at the ATM at the end of the street,” the man said to Dixon.

Dixon started off but McLean grabbed him by the collar. “You'll have to trust me. Now quit yanking me around and tell me what you know. Or I can take the both of you in and we can talk in a little room.”

The kiosk man leaned onto the counter toward McLean and said, “All right. I heard there was a Soviet MiG that went down back in the eighties on some Norwegian island up in the Arctic. Some kind of spy mission. Real secret type stuff. The Americans, the CIA, were on it like a Highlander on Haggis. So were the KGB. But none of them got off the island. I heard that for some reason both side gave up on it, but I don't know why.”

“What was on the plane?” McLean asked.

“My contact said it was some kind of weapon. Something the old Soviets had developed. Word was sent out to start the bidding.”

“Without even knowing what it was?” McLean asked. That was almost impossible to believe.

“Well, the Russians know what it is,” the kiosk man explained.”

McLean had him. “So your contact is Russian.”

“I didn't say that,” the man said emphatically.

Not wanting to argue, knowing he already knew the answer, McLean leaned in a little closer and said, “Where is this going down?”

“I don't know. Some island in the Arctic. Spits or Swallows.”

“Spitsbergen?”

“Sounds about right.”

McLean considered that. He had never been to the Svalbard Archipelago, but he had seen a BBC documentary on the islands a few years back. “Why is something going down now? How do you know?”

“How much money did you put in Gary's account?”

“Enough. There'll be more once I verify the information. Now answer the question.”

“He has a temper,” the man said to Dixon. To McLean he said, “Some American hired a guy named Jake Adams to find the MiG. He's there right now.”

Jake Adams? McLean had never met the man, but another friend of his at MI6, Sinclair Tucker, had mentioned the man often. Adams was former Air Force Intel and former CIA. He was now a security consultant of some kind. Private. But he had been called back by the Agency a few times in the recent past. If Adams had been hired, something big was about to go down. Trouble seemed to follow him around like a mist on the glen.

Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

Kurt Jenkins slammed down the SAT phone for the tenth time in the past hour. He had tried to call Jake Adams for hours from his private office, but had not been able to get through. A communications specialist now stood at his side, a former Navy nuclear submariner who had retired from that service directly into the Agency a year ago.

“Tell me I'm not going crazy, Johnson,” Jenkins said.

Johnson pushed his thick black glasses higher on his nose. “Sir, you're not going crazy. There is SAT coverage on Spitsbergen, but for some reason the signals are being disrupted.”

Jenkins thought for a second. “Is someone trying to jam our signal?”

“Not a chance, Sir. There's a ton of Boreal activity, though.”

“English, Johnson.”

“Boreal, Sir. Referring to the Aurora Borealis.”

The Agency director's face distorted. “You're telling me the Northern Lights are fucking up my SAT Comm?”

“Yes, Sir. A qualified maybe. The Sun flares and sends ionic. . .” He stopped short. “The Sun causes the Northern Lights and screws up our satellites.”

“You're a quick learner. Thank you, Johnson. Now how long will it last?”

Johnson's eyes rolled up in thought. “On Svalbard? On and off until the Sun goes Supernova.”

“So SAT images are also a no go.”

“Sir, we have no assets in that region at this time. We could re-direct, but that would take a while. And then we'd still have the Sun problem.”

“Great. Thank you. That'll be all.”

The communications specialist left Jenkins in his office alone. Great. Great. Great. The charter helicopter was hours overdue. No communications. Now Jake Adams was stuck out in the middle of nowhere, probably freezing his ass off. At least he was there with a beautiful woman.

Spitsbergen Island, Norway

The Arctic sky streaked with swirling greens and orange of the Aurora Borealis. With the darkness came the cold of the northern wind whipping off the glaciers.

The three of them had spent hours digging up the remains of five men; four Soviets and finally the body of the Oslo assistant CIA station chief, John Korkala. All of the bodies showed signs of animal predation—probably polar bears and Arctic foxes. Only one man remained missing. Jake's old friend, Steve Olson. Also missing was the snowmobile the Americans had rented in Pyramiden.

Jake stood now outside the helicopter, mesmerized by the Northern Lights, the hunting rifle over his right shoulder. He heard the side door open behind him and seconds later arms reached around him, followed by a kiss on the side of his neck.

“Kjersti, my girlfriend is right in the helo.”

Anna slapped him on the butt and came to the front of Jake. “You'd like that.”

“She's a very attractive woman.”

She smiled and said, “I agree. You think she might be up for a three-way?”

Jake knew that was a no-win question, but he played along. “Maybe. But it might go over better if you approach her. See what she thinks.”

“I'll bet you're getting hard just thinking about that.” She looked around Jake toward the helo and then placed her hand on his groin.

“It's so cold out here I'd be lucky to find it to piss.”

She took her hand away. “You're no fun.”

“That's what I hear. Did Kjersti get through to anyone on the radio?”

“No.”

“We need to stay the night,” Jake said. “I've got to find Steve.”

“I know. The two of us agreed.”

“Might get a little cold and cozy in the helo tonight.”

Anna smiled. “That's what I'm talking about.”

“In the meantime, I'm heading up to that ridge to see if I can get through on the SAT phone. I'm sure coverage is not great for this region under normal circumstances, but with this Boreal activity there's probably not much chance of getting through.”

“You want some company?” Anna asked him.

“No. Stay down here with Kjersti. Let her know what I'm up to. Stay warm.”

She kissed him on the lips and said, “You stay safe. Don't let the polar bears get you.”

Jake patted the butt of the rifle. “Got this.”

He took off toward a ridge a couple of hundred yards away. With the Northern Lights swirling above the stark white glacier, he could see fine without turning on his head lamp.

Half way there his lungs started to give out on him, the cold, damp air making him labor with each step. How had it come to this? A simple walk on a glacier and he was feeling it. His body started to shake and he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and steady himself. It wasn't the cold, he knew, but his worst fear. He had been drinking too much over the past three months, and now had been without for days. His body was reacting to its absence. He had always thought that drinking problems were serious character flaws, a weakness that had nothing to do with the physical addiction of the juice itself. Maybe that was true. Maybe the body ruled the mind at this point and not the other way around. Regardless, he knew that he could beat this, and just maybe he was in the right place to conquer it. Without the temptation in front of him at all times.

He continued up the ridge and came to a point where he could see even farther than he had earlier in the day. It was the best place for miles to get a signal. If there was a satellite somewhere on the southern horizon somewhere above the point where Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia met, perhaps his SAT phone would pick it up.

Looking back down the ridge toward the helo, he hoped Anna and Kjersti were staying warm. His mind drifted for a microsecond about what Anna had said earlier. He knew she was kidding, but he also knew that she knew how to play with a man's natural thoughts.

He tried the SAT phone, angling it in all directions, hoping he could get any signal at all. Nothing. Yeah, the Aurora Borealis was playing with the satellites. They were beautiful but destructive.

Then he lifted the binoculars from his chest and scanned in all directions. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he knew that he couldn't go back to the helo at this time. It was tight in there and he would more than likely start to shake uncontrollably. Anna didn't need to see that, nor did Kjersti. Their confidence in him would be shot all to hell.

There. Nearly a mile to the northeast. A large figure and a smaller one lumbered across the glacial plain—a polar bear sow and her cub. They were vectoring away toward the east of their location. Better check for company. He quickly scanned in three hundred sixty degrees. Nothing.

He set the binoculars to his chest and took in a deep breath, when something green glimmered just thirty yards away. Then it was gone. Then again. He looked up at the Northern Lights and saw they were mostly green at this time. But something had reflected the light.

Pulling up the binoculars again, he couldn't tell what was causing the reflection. So he walked over there for a closer look.

As he got closer, he saw that the ridge had an overhang—an indentation like a half cave. He clicked on his headlamp and directed the beam of light lower. Then he saw it. With the warmer temps and the wind, snow had cleared from a trailer. Brushing further ahead, the trailer was attached to a snowmobile. The missing snowmobile.

His old friend, Captain Steve Olson, had to be close by. What would Jake have done? Steve had been either hiding or trying to find protection from the elements. The overhang would have provided some cover for both. And until recently, Jake guessed, the entire cave-like structure would have been covered in heavy snow. It was only because of the warm trend that summer that any of these things—the MiG and the snowmobiles—had been exposed.