Chasing the Storm (25 page)

Marin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Stay awake, Sasha. We need you now.” He spoke rapidly to him in Russian. Sasha brought up a website, typed in a password, and the screen filled with square portraits, some black and white, some blurred. Some looked as though they had been taken from a strange angle: high up, or as the subject was in the act of turning. Under each picture was a list of names.

“This,” Marin told Rygg, “is a wonderful website, top-secret. It contains all the known agents of most of the enemies of the U.S., as well as all their aliases.”

“How the hell did you manage to get this information?”

“I have a friend who got fired from U.S. Homeland Security. He managed to smuggle this info out for us before he left his job.”

“ Nice.”

Marin scrolled down, slowing here and there and moving closer to the screen. After a couple minutes, Rygg stopped him. He pointed. “There,” he said. “That’s one of them, at any rate. The second guy, the one who was waiting outside.” And a few moments later, they found the first agent, a New York-born Swedish citizen named Ahmad Zardooz. He was a clerk in a ball-bearings company. And he was also an Iranian secret agent. Something about the way the man’s face was turned made Rygg pause. He put a hand on Marin’s arm.

“Wait,” he said. “I think I’ve seen this guy before.”

“Where?”

“Give me a second. Just a second.” He leaned back and half-closed his eyes. “Somewhere …” And then he had it: “Oh my God!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“
That’s
the man who tried to shoot you in Hamburg.”

“Torgrim. Are you sure?”

“Not at all. I just saw his face for a split-second in Orfeoplatz. But it was one of those split seconds that seem to last for a couple minutes, and I could almost swear …”

“Very interesting. Very, very interesting,” Marin nodded slowly.

“But I don’t understand something.”

“What is that?”

“Why didn’t they come after me? Clearly they were watching the plane come in. They must have spotted me. Why didn’t they come down and nab me outside?”

Marin shrugged. “A number of reasons are possible,” he said. “Perhaps they were using just two agents, and one, of course, had to stay with the Russians. Or perhaps they didn’t want to expose themselves too much. But I would guess the real reason is more obvious.”

“What’s that?”

“You severely wounded Zardooz. The second agent, I think, probably had to deal with moving him out of the airport and to a hospital – not an easy task, as he was in disguise, and would not want to alert the airport authorities. I think he did not have time to waste on you. But your work is very helpful. We are now able to prove that two Iranian agents were watching the arrival of the An-124. If Lena’s work is equally fruitful, I may be able to publish soon. Perhaps even tonight.”

“And now?”

“How are you feeling?”

Rygg paused a moment and closed his eyes. In truth, he felt a little strange, as though there was a pane of glass between him and reality. But he opened his eyes and shrugged.

“Would you be able to go down and find Lena? Give her support, if she needs it? That is, if you are up to it,” Marin asked. “Here,” he added, fishing out his wallet. He handed Rygg a laminated card. “This might help to get you in. Berth 42C.”

The port was just a couple minutes’ walk from the hotel. Rygg loitered in the awning of a bar, waiting for the right opportunity to enter through the gate. A taxi-load of drunken sailors provided it for him and he marched on through when the sentry was talking with the taxi driver.

An arm landed on Rygg’s shoulder and he saw it was the sentry, halting him. Then he grabbed Rygg’s wrist and peered at the laminate card more closely, before nodding and getting back to the intoxicated sailors.

Rygg wandered down to the waterfront, where the ships were tethered to the shore with fat hempen ropes knotted around stumps of iron. There were four cruise ships, a number of smaller ocean-going fishing boats, with angular groves of aerials spiking from their cabins, and a dozen or so cargo ships laden with containers. But the location of the
Alpensturm
was obvious as soon as he’d stepped into the port: at the far end, a shouting cluster of people all clutching cameras and microphones jostled at the water’s edge. A television car with a dish on its roof stood behind them. The blue beams from three police cars pulsed along the wet concrete and he could see a number of policemen standing at a distance, their hands resting on their weapons.

Staying in the shadows away from the waterfront, Rygg moved stealthily toward the cluster of journalists. Leaning against a pick-up truck, he looked down at the berth where the journalists clamored. And now he realized that he could not have chosen a more optimal time to arrive: the ship was just pulling into the berth. He recognized it instantly. “ALPENSTURM” was painted in white block letters along its prow. It seemed smaller than he recalled from the television images.
It’s just a little piece of tin
, he thought. All this hoopla over a bucket of tin. But then he thought of the weapons sequestered in its hold and a chill passed over him.

The ship puttered to a standstill and a sailor on the deck tossed a rope to someone on shore.

Just as the
Alpensturm
was being made secure, someone laid a hand on his shoulder, and instantly he swiveled, fists raised. But it was Lena. She smiled at him. “Hello, Torgrim,” she said. “You arrived at the perfect time.”

“Where have you been?”

“Having a drink with the harbormaster. He is telling me about the media craziness. And now I must to join them.” She held up her phone with a grin. “I also am a journalist!” And he watched her walk down to join the throng, squirming into the middle of them, shouting and waving the phone. As soon as the gangplank was laid, three men in suits came out of a building to Rygg’s right and walked onto the ship. They were met by a sad-eyed, middle-aged man in a dark jacket and military-looking hat. Rygg presumed it was Captain Tamm. Two military-looking men joined the captain a moment later and all six conferred for a few minutes. Then the suits gestured to the shore and immediately eight black-garbed commandos exited a police van and trotted across the concrete and on board.

The captain led them across the deck, where they vanished from view behind the control room. They were gone for ten minutes or so. When they reemerged, each commando was cuffed to a bare-chested man. The bare-chested men were covered with tattoos. A couple had blood on their faces, as though there had been a struggle. The tattooed men were led stumbling down the gangplank. One tried to cover his face with his forearm, but his minder yanked it away. They all piled into the van. And then, sirens blaring and lights flashing, the van pulled away.

As suddenly as it had begun, the show seemed to be over. The suits disembarked, but shrugged off the shouted questions from the journalists. They got into a black Mercedes and drove away. The gangplank was hauled back on board. Some of the journalists remained, talking into microphones in front of cameras, but most slowly dispersed.

Lena followed a group of five journalists, lingering just behind them, and pretending to make a call on her phone. Rygg waited until she was almost out the gate, then trotted after her. They walked back to the hotel together.

“Well, that’s that,” he said. “The
Alpensturm
has landed. Bit of a let-down, I thought. Wonder what Marko will say.”

“Only eight came off,” Lena murmured.

“How many should there have been?”

“I am not sure. But I think there were more.”

At the hotel, Marin listened carefully to Lena’s description of the men who had come off. Sasha was sleeping again. Marin compared her photographs to the ones Rygg had taken of the commandos who had emerged from the An-124. They were the same men.

Marin sat back. He glanced at Sasha. “It seems …” he trailed off. Lena said something to him in Russian. Marin summoned a little smile. “It seems too easy,” he murmured. “Something is too … staged, perhaps. Do you feel this? Or perhaps I am just used to intrigue by this time, and reality is not strange enough.”

Lena and Rygg just looked at him. “Marko,” said Rygg. “I’m pretty …” He shook his head.

Marin laughed, and tossed him a key. “This is for the room across the hall.”

“Wake me up when all this is over, okay?” Rygg opened the door, but Marin stopped him.

“Torgrim?”

“Yes?”

“Once again, thank you.”

In the room, Rygg kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed. He felt strange, as though he was just getting sick, or as though he was just getting over a long illness. He could feel the adrenalin still pumping in his veins and he had a headache. When he closed his eyes, the bed seemed to tip slightly. He opened them again and looked at the ceiling. He scanned the scene, trying to focus on something and steady himself. Not able to do so, he cursed wearily, turning out the light and closing his eyes. The room still tilted, but this time he just let himself slide off into blackness.

Chapter 23

Santa Nikolaiou

May 15

Rygg woke from
a sleep deeper than any he could remember, with the feeling that something was wrong. He was still in the dark room, but an echo of shouting was in his ears and he sat up, heart pounding. The hotel was utterly silent. From far away came the throbbing of music, from a nightclub, perhaps. Then there was the sound of an engine, from the street outside the hotel. Rygg sat on the bed, listening. The noise was the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle. Although he’d been on his recently acquired bike for just a bit it had a familiar sound. Was it possible that there was another one similar to his outside the Ianakis Inn? Or was someone stealing the Yamaha? He dashed to a window and saw his bike taking off, but he couldn’t see who was on it. Why would someone steal an old XT? Whoever it was must have hotwired it. It couldn’t be that hard to do.

Turning back into the room, he saw with a shock that a body lay on the bed across from his. He peered at it and grinned. It was Lena. She was still sound asleep, but she hadn’t been in this room earlier. He rubbed his head, wondering what he’d forgotten. Since he was in his briefs he picked up his pants to put on, feeling into his pockets. The keys to his bike were gone. “
Men i svarte
?” he muttered. It must have been Marin – who else? But where the hell was Marin going at – he checked his watch – 4:41 in the morning?

Rygg splashed water on his face to wake him up and opened the door, creeping across the hall to check in with Marin and Sasha. One of them must have taken the cycle, he figured. Their door was ajar and he pushed it open. And instantly, he realized what a fool he’d been. There were three men in the room. Two were huge, blond, baby-faced monsters clutching submachine guns that looked like toys in their hands. They might have been twins. The third man, who turned slowly from the desk with a smile, was Sokolov. He pushed the computer, which was on, away from him, sat on the desk and nodded slowly.

“Mr. Torgrim Rygg. Welcome. So nice to see you again.”

“I thought I’d seen the last of your evil face.
Jævla forpulte rasshøl
! Where’s Marko, you fucking bastard?”

“That is what
you
are going to tell
me
.” Sokolov said something in Russian to one of the blond twins, who went across the hall. He was back a minute later with Lena. She looked terrible: stark white, her lips bloodless. She hung from the man’s grip as though her bones had turned to rubber.

“You leave her alone!” Rygg shouted angrily.

Sokolov pressed his fingertips together and looked at them earnestly. “We would dearly love to leave
both
of you alone. As I explained to you the last time we met, Mr. Rygg, before you so rudely took off, we are not primarily interested in you, but merely in some information in your possession.”

“
Dra til helvette
!”

As if in answer, Sokolov reached down and picked up a briefcase from the floor. He set it on the desk beside him, snapped it open, and took out the small leather pouch. Rygg was lightheaded with horror. Sokolov set the pouch on his lap. Swinging his legs like a schoolboy, he stroked the leather. “You remember this, surely?” he said to Rygg. “Now we can introduce Miss Lorincozová to my little instruments. And I notice that you seem to have developed an infection.” He gestured to Rygg’s finger. “I am sorry about that. Perhaps we can take care of that problem – remove a little more, so you have a clean, fresh wound? Start all over. What do you think?”

Rygg opened his mouth, but his tongue had suddenly gone dry as sandpaper. He slumped to the floor, leaned back against a wardrobe and closed his eyes.

“Look at me please, Mr. Rygg,” Sokolov said.

Rygg shook his head, keeping his eyes closed. A second later, something stabbed into his ribs, and he doubled over, gagging. One of the blond twins had kicked him with a steel-toed boot. As he sat back up, he could feel something grating in his side. “
Jævel
! You broke my fucking ribs, asshole,” he said.

“Please pay attention to me,” said Sokolov. “I personally am not a violent man, as I have told you. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about my friends here.” He gave a couple terse commands to the twins. Moving as one, they picked up Rygg and settled him and Lena in wooden armchairs facing Sokolov. Sokolov handed them plastic cuffs and the twins bound their wrists and ankles to the chairs.

Slowly, Sokolov opened the leather pouch and touched several of the instruments lightly. He pulled out a scalpel and began to strop it on the leather. Then he looked up and smiled at Lena and Rygg. He pointed the blade at them. “We have in Russia a little rhyme,” he said. “To choose someone in a game. When I was a child, my sister and I used to say this:

“
Raz, dva, tri, chyetirye, pyat,

Vishyel zaychik pogoolyat.

Vdroog ohotnik vibyegayet,

Pryamo v zaychika stryelyayet.
”

As he recited the rhyme, he pointed the scalpel first at Rygg, then at Lena. They watched him dully. The rhyme had started out slowly, but now Sokolov sped up, putting a little cock of his head into every phrase:

“
Pif-paf! Oy-oy-oy!

Oomirayet zaychik moy.

Prinyesli yego domoy

Okazalsya on zhivoy!
”

With the last joyful “
zhivoy!
” the blade swiveled toward Lena.

“Excellent,” he said. “Miss Lorincozová, you are it! Now, you know the routine. I ask you some questions. If the answer is not forthcoming or is not to my liking, we start removing segments of your fingers. Understood?”

Rygg looked at Lena. She was nodding, so he did too.

“Excellent. Now, we will begin with what I know.” And Sokolov proceeded to tell Rygg and Lena everything they had done since they’d landed on Cyprus.

When he was done, Rygg looked at him and shook his head. “How do you do it?” he asked, genuinely mystified. “You’ve figured out everything. I don’t think there’s anything more I could tell you.”

“Oh,” Sokolov said, tapping his fingernail against the blade. “There is one more tiny morsel of information that I am missing. Here is what I want to know: where is Marko Marin?”

Rygg shook his head and held out his suppurating finger. “Go ahead,” he said. “I honestly have no idea.” Lena as well shrugged and shook her head.

“I believe you, actually,” Sokolov said. “But I think you know more than you are telling me. What was your backup plan? What was the rendezvous if things went wrong?”

Rygg shut his eyes, then instantly opened them again, remembering the goon’s boot. He shook his head, without looking at Lena. She said something in Russian.

Sokolov shrugged, then hopped down off the desk. He moved toward Lena. “We will see,” he muttered softly. “We will see.”

Rygg watched as he gently stroked the back of Lena’s hand. He placed her little finger along the edge of the wooden armrest and shook his head. “Such a shame,” he murmured. “You are a beautiful woman. Mr. Marin has good taste.”

Lena didn’t move at all. She sat watching Sokolov with malevolence. Sokolov brought the scalpel down and rested it on the crease of her knuckle. And suddenly, Rygg shouted: “Platres!” Sokolov lifted the scalpel and turned to Rygg. “What did you say?”

“Torgrim, stay
quiet
,” Lena hissed, turning her malevolence on him.

“No, Lena, I’ve thought it through,” he said. “This guy isn’t going to quit.”

“Platres,” Sokolov said, pleased. He sat back on his heels, looking from one to the other. “Yes, I know the town. Up on the mountain, right? That makes sense. Marin is a professional. So where in Platres?”

Lena leaned back and closed her eyes. “Saint Nikolaiou,” she said.

“And what is that? Café, restaurant?”

“A church.”

“Fantastic. Thank you so much.” Sokolov returned to the desk and placed the scalpel back in the pouch. He rubbed his hands together. “But of course I’m not sure even now whether you’re telling the truth. You will accompany us to Platres. If Mr. Marin is not there, then we may have a serious problem on our hands. And I use the word ‘hands’ advisedly.” He grinned at them.

The goons snipped away the cuffs, let Rygg and Lena get fully dressed, and led them down the stairs. There was no sign of the receptionist or the cat in the hotel lobby. Rygg wondered if that was Marin’s or Sokolov’s doing. Sokolov, carrying the laptop from the hotel room, led them behind the hotel to an alley. As soon as they came around the corner, lights came on and an engine started up. The goons thrust them into a black van and immediately cuffed their hands behind them. Sokolov sat up front.

The drive to Platres took a little over an hour, winding up along switchback roads. They passed no other vehicles on the journey. When they were about halfway up the mountain, a pale gray-pink began to separate the sky from the land: dawn had arrived. The light spread across the sea below them. There were several smaller islands out there, dark blots tarnishing the silver, and they could see the slivers of boats in the Larnaca port. They looked so small. If we could just erase one of those slivers, Rygg thought, none of this would have to happen.

By the time they got to Platres, a pure gold light had fallen across the tawny rooftops nestled among thick pines. It was utterly charming. Each house had flowerboxes of geraniums and bougainvillea and over the verandas of most there were trellises blanketed in grape vines. The clusters of grapes hung down, dense and green. There seemed to be nobody about. The van curled through the streets for a good five minutes before Sokolov spotted a man leaning out the window of his house, smoking a cigarette, a glass of coffee in his hand.

Sokolov ordered the driver to stop. He rolled down his window, then turned back to Lena. “What was the name of the church again?”

“Nikolaiou,” she told him.

“Saint Nikolaiou?” he called to the man.

The man took a leisurely drag on his cigarette before nodding. He tapped away his ash, pointing up at the pine-clad heights above them. Sokolov leaned out the window and followed the man’s finger. He pointed as well and the man nodded again. “Santa Nikolaiou,” he said. In a little clearing in the pines, they could see a dun patch, scored with a couple windows.

As they wound up to the church, Sokolov turned around in his seat. “Now listen,” he said. “We will stop some distance from the church. You will wait for a few minutes while my friends here get into position. Then, very slowly, you will walk to the church. Act normal. I want you to reappear with Mr. Marin and Sasha within five minutes. If in five minutes you do not come out, we will enter the church and kill whoever we find in there. Understood?”

Rygg and Lena nodded mutely.

The Chapel of Santa Nikolaiou lay at the end of a curving gravel drive. The driver, on Sokolov’s orders, stopped the van before they were in sight of the building, easing it off the gravel and beneath a stand of pine trees. They all got out. One of the goons snipped away the cuffs, and Rygg and Lena rubbed their wrists. The plastic had cut into Rygg’s right wrist, and his palm was filled with blood. He rubbed it off on the side of the car.

Sokolov took out a gun and stood away from them. “Stand with your hands on the van, please,” he said. “Faces down.” They did as they were told. The goons and the driver moved off into the trees, weapons at the ready. For a long time, Rygg and Lena stood there, foreheads against the black glass of the van windows. A bird released its rippling song above their heads. In the distance they could hear falling water. The air smelled fresh and clean and piney.

Finally, Sokolov said, “Okay. Now. Walk toward the church. If you try to run or do anything suspicious, you will be shot.”

Slowly, in a surreal state of mind, Rygg followed Lena down the gravel track. He could hear Sokolov’s footsteps crunching twenty meters or so behind them. They rounded a bend and the chapel was before them: a low building of white stone with a cracked bell-tower and tall slit windows. Three moss-covered steps lay before the dark doorway. Sokolov’s footsteps ceased and they moved on, up the steps, and stood side by side on the threshold, looking into the chapel. It took a full minute before their eyes focused to the gloom of the interior. There were eight rows of pews, each with worn velvet kneeling pads. The light came from the doorway and a handful of corroded stained-glass windows. At the front of the church, a lectern stood to one side, with a tasseled cloth draped from it. But behind the lectern, at the far end of the aisle, two curtains shielded the sanctuary. The curtains were embroidered with ornate orthodox crosses in gold. There was an odor of old incense and smoke.

Rygg and Lena moved into the church. Rygg looked around, exhaling in relief. It appeared to be completely empty. Lena walked up to the lectern, touched it, and made the sign of a cross. She started to turn back to where Rygg stood, halfway along the aisle, but suddenly stopped and moved toward the curtain. It was parted a scant inch. With the side of her hand, she gingerly moved the curtain aside. Then she sank to her knees. Rygg saw her trying to scream, gripping the curtain in her fist, and using it to hold herself upright. A horrible, gasping hiss came from her mouth, as though her voice-box had been cut out. As Rygg ran up the aisle, the first croaking, retching noise emerged from her lips.

He yanked the curtains apart with one hand, the other raised to deal with whatever lay behind it. And there, lying on the altar, one pale arm hanging down, was Marin’s body. His face was gone: it had been completely smashed in. Beside the altar lay the solid brass curtain rod that had done the deed. Marin’s gray shirt was a mess of blood, and there was blood on his shoes, so Rygg knew he’d been standing when the first blows had hit.

Rygg was slumped beside Lena in front of the altar. He couldn’t remember sitting. Lena was now weeping, her face slathered with tears and spit, and strings of drool ran down onto the stone floor. She pawed the air, lifting a shivering hand to Marin’s shoes, touching his right heel as though it was hot, then pulling her hand back to her mouth and screaming hoarsely.