The Bones Of Odin (Matt Drake 1) (11 page)

Drake made his own speed-dial call. “Let him work, Dahl. Trust me. We’re here to help.”

Wells answered immediately. “Been catching zeds, Drake? What the hell’s going on?”

Drake filled him in.

“Well, here’s a solid gold nugget. We checked into Alicia Myles. You know the score, Matt. You’re never
truly
out of the SAS,” he paused. “Last known address - 111 Hildegarde Strasse, Munich.”

“Germany? But she was with the Canadians.”

“Uh huh. That’s not all. She lived in Munich with her boyfriend - one Milo Noxon - a rather nasty citizen of Las Vegas, USA. And he’s Ex-
Marine Force Recon
. The best the Yanks have to offer.”

Drake took a moment of evaluation. “
That’s
how he knew me then, through Myles. The question is - did she swap sides to spite him, or to help him?”

“Answer unknown. Maybe you could ask her.”

“I’ll try. Look, we’re swinging by our balls up here, Wells. Think you could contact your old mates in the States? Dahl’s already been in contact with the FBI, but they’re stalling. We’re seven hours out . . . and coming in blind.”

“You trust them? These turnips? You want our guys in to clean up the inevitable cluster-fuck?”

“They’re Swedes. And yes, I trust them. And yes, I want our guys in.”

“Understood.” Wells cut the connection.

Drake glanced around. The aeroplane was small, but roomy. Eleven Special Forces Marines sat in the back, lounging, snoozing, and generally bulling each other up in Swedish. Dahl snapped constantly on the phone across the aisle, and in front of him the Professor rolled out scroll after scroll, resting each one delicately on the seat-back, scanning for the ancient differences between fact and fiction.

To his immediate left, Kennedy, back to wearing her Number One formless pantsuit, made her first call. “Captain Lipkind there? . . . ahh, tell him it’s Kennedy Moore.”

Ten seconds passed, then: “No. Tell him he can’t ring me back. This is
important.
Tell him it’s about national security if you want, just
get him
.”

Ten more seconds, then:
“Moore!”
Drake heard the bark, even from where he sat.
“Can’t it wait?”

“Listen to me, Captain, there’s a situation. First, check with Officer Swane of the FBI. I’m here with Torsten Dahl of the Swedish SGG, and an SAS officer. The National History Museum is under direct threat. Check the details and call me back straight away. I need your help.”

Kennedy closed her phone and let out a deep breath. “Bang goes my pension.”

Drake checked his watch. Six hours until landing.

Ben’s mobile chirped, and he snatched it up. “Sis?”

Professor Parnevik was leaning out across the aisle, chasing an errant scroll with a veiny arm. “Kid knows his Valkyries.” He said to no one in particular. “But where are they? And the Eyes - yes, I will find the Eyes.”

Ben was saying. “Great stuff, Karin. E-mail me the blueprints of the museum, and highlight that room for me. Then send the Curator’s details by separate mail. Hey, Sis, say hi to Mum and Dad. Love ya.”

Ben resumed his clicking, then started taking a few more notes. “Got the museum Curator’s number,” he shouted. “Dahl? Want me to scare the crap out of him?”

Drake broke out into a disbelieving smile as the Swedish intelligence officer waved a frantic
No!
without dropping a vowel. It was good to see Ben exhibiting this kind of confidence. The geek had withdrawn a little to allow the man inside some room to breathe.

Kennedy’s phone broke out into song. She flipped it open quickly, but not before she treated the entire plane to a snatch of The Pretty Reckless playing
Goin’ Down.

Ben nodded in time. “Nice. Our next cover song for sure.”

“Moore.” Kennedy flicked her speaker-phone on.

“What the
crap
is going on? I’m blocked by half a dozen shit-heels, and then told, not so politely, to keep my nose in the gutter where it belongs. Something’s got all the big dogs barking, Moore, and I’m betting it’s you.” He paused, then said reflectively: “Not for the first time, I guess.”

Kennedy gave him the abbreviated version that ended with a plane full of Swedish Marines and an unknown SAS team en route, now five hours away from U.S. soil.

Drake felt a flutter.
Five hours.

At that moment Dahl shouted: “New intel! Just heard the Canadians weren’t even in Sweden. It seems they sacrificed the World Tree and the Spear to concentrate on the
Valkyries.
” He sent a nod of praise towards Ben, pointedly excluding the grimacing Professor. “But . . . they came up empty-handed. This private collector must be a real recluse . . . or . . .” Drake shrugged, “he could be a criminal.”

“Good suggestion. Anyway men - this is where it gets ugly. The Canadians are gearing up to hit the museum early morning, NYC time.”

Kennedy’s face took on a murderous look as she listened to both her boss and Dahl at the same time. “They’re using the date,” she suddenly hissed to both parties as it hit her. “Those absolute
bastards
- and the Germans, no doubt - are concealing their real intentions behind the fuckin’ date.”

Ben looked up. “I’ve lost track.”

Drake echoed him. “What date?”

“When we land in NYC,” Dahl explained, “it’ll be around eight A.M. on September 11
^th
.”

SIXTEEN

AIRSPACE

Four hours left. The aircraft droned on through the soupy sky.

Dahl said: “I’ll try the FBI again. But it’s odd. I can’t get past this level of screening. It’s a friggin’ stone wall. Ben - call the Curator. Drake - your old boss. Clock’s ticking, men, and we’re nowhere. This hour requires progress. Let’s go.”

Kennedy was pleading with her boss: “Shit on Thomas Kaleb, Lipkind,” she said. “This has nothing to do with him,
or
my damn career. I’m telling you something the FBI, the CIA and all those other three-letter-pricks don’t know. I’m asking . . .” she paused, “I guess I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Three- letter- pricks,”
Ben grunted. “Brilliant.”

Drake wanted to slide up to Kennedy Moore and offer a few words of encouragement. The civilian in him wanted to hug her, but the solider made him stay aloof.

But the civilian was starting to win
that
battle. He’d used the word
gronk
earlier to ‘soldierise’ her, to rebuff the growing spark of a feeling he recognised, but it hadn’t worked.

Wells answered his call. “Speak now.”

“Been listening to Taylor again? Look, where we at, mate? You talked us into U.S. airspace yet?”

“Well – yes . . . and no. I’m hitting reams of red tape, Drake, and that doesn’t sit well on my lap -” He waited a while, then grunted in disappointment. “That was a
Mai
reference, pal. Try to keep up.”

Drake smiled despite himself. “Damn you, Wells. Look, keep your head together for this mission - help us out - and I’ll tell you about the filthiest club in Hong King where Mai ever worked undercover, called the
Spinning Top.
”

“Fuck me, that sounds intriguing. You’re on, my man. Look, we’re en route, tooled up to the gusset, and
my
people over the pond have no problem with that.”

Drake sensed the ‘but’. “Yes?”  

“Someone in authority is denying landing privileges and no one’s
ever heard
of your plane, and that, my friend, smacks of insider corruption.”

Drake heard him. “Okay, keep me posted.” The careful press of a button ended the call.

He heard Kennedy say: “Low level is perfect, Captain. I’m overhearing chatter here that speaks of conspiracy. Be . . . be careful, Lipkind.”

She closed her phone. “Well, he’s prickly, but he’s taking me at my word. He’s sending as many black-and-whites to the scene as he can, low key. And he knows someone in the local Homeland Security field office,” she said, smoothing her limp blouse. “Beans are being spilled.”

Christ,
Drake thought.
There’s a shitload of firepower heading for that museum.
Enough to start a damn war. He didn’t say anything out loud, but he did check his watch.

Three hours left.

Ben was still involved with the curator: “Look, we’re not talking a major overhaul here, just moving the exhibit. I don’t need to tell you how large the museum is, sir. Just move it, and all will be well. Yes . . . the SGG . . . Swedish Special Forces. The FBI are being informed as we speak . . .no! Don’t wait for them to call. You can’t afford to delay.”

Fifteen seconds of silence, then: “You never heard of SGG? Well,
Google it!”
Ben jabbed at his phone in frustration. “He’s stalling,” Ben said. “I just know it. He sounded cagey, like he couldn’t think of enough excuses.”

“More red tape.” Drake gestured to Dahl. “This is fast becoming an outbreak.”

A heavy silence followed, then Dahl’s mobile rang. “Oh, my,” he said in reaction. “
Den
Statsminister.”

Drake made a face at Kennedy and Ben. “Prime Minister.”

Some respectful, but nevertheless candid words were passed that increased Drake’s respect for Torsten Dahl. The Special Forces officer told his boss the way it was. Drake was gloomily convinced he was going to end up liking this guy.

Dahl ended the call, and then spent a moment gathering his thoughts. At last he looked up and addressed the plane.

“Straight from a member of the President’s Cabinet, his closest advisors,” Dahl told them. “This flight will not be cleared to land.”

*****

Three hours to go.

“They wouldn’t inform the President,” Dahl said. “Washington DC and Capitol Hill is deeply immersed in this, my friends. The
Statsminister
says it has gone global now, a conspiracy of international proportions and nobody knows who supports who. That alone,” he said frowning, “speaks to the gravity of our mission.”

“Cluster-fuck,” Drake said. “It’s what we used to call a fuck-up on a massive scale.”

Ben, in the meantime, had tried the Curator of the National History Museum again. All he got was voicemail. “Not right,” he said. “He should have checked on
something
by now.” Ben’s dextrous fingers immediately began flying over the virtual keyboard.

“Got an idea,” he said loudly. “Hope to God I’m wrong.”

Then Wells rang back, explaining that his SAS team had sneaked a landing at an abandoned New Jersey airfield. The team was inbound towards central New York, travelling by any means necessary.

Drake checked the time. Two hours to landing.

And then Ben cried out: “Nailed it!” Everyone jumped. Even the Swedish Marines gave him their full attention.

“It’s here!” he shouted. “Plastered all over the internet, if you have the time to look.” He jabbed at the screen angrily.

“Colby Taylor,” he said. “The Canadian billionaire is the National History Museum’s biggest contributor and one of New York’s major financiers. Whatcha bet he made a few calls?”

Dahl grimaced. “That’s our blockage,” he groaned. “The man they say owns more people than the Mafia.” For the first time, the Swedish officer appeared to slump in his seat.

Kennedy couldn’t hide the hate. “Fat-cat suits win again,” she hissed. “Bet the bastard’s a banker as well.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Drake said. “I always have a Plan B.” 

One hour to go.

SEVENTEEN

NEW YORK CITY, USA

The Port Authority Police Department of New York is arguably best known for its humbling bravery and loss during the events of September 11
^th
. What it is less known for is its covert handling of most SAS flights originating out of Europe. Whilst not employing a dedicated team to police this element of its work, the intercontinental personnel involved are in such a small minority that, over the years, many of them have become close friends.

Drake made one more call. “Coming in hot tonight,” he told Jack Schwarz, PAPD Inspector. “You missed me, pal?”

“Jeez, Drake, been . . . what? Two years?”

“Three. New Year’s Eve, ’07.”

“Wife okay?”

“Alyson and I split, mate. That enough chitchat to mark my identity?”

“Thought you left the Service.”

“I did. Wells called me back for one last job. He call you?”

“He did. Said you promised him some Mai-time.”

“Did he now? Schwarz, listen to me. This is your call. You should know that the shit
will
hit the fan, and that our entry
will
be traced back to you, eventually. I’m sure, by then, we’ll all be heroes and this will be considered a favourable act, but . . .”

“Wells filled me in,” Schwarz said, but Drake heard the undertone of unease. “Don’t worry, bud. I still have enough juice to swing landing permission.”

Their plane glided into U.S. airspace.

*****

The plane landed in weak daylight and taxied right up to a small terminal building. The minute the door cracked open, twelve fully loaded members of the Swedish SGG jogged double-time down the rickety metal stairs and piled into three waiting vehicles. Drake, Ben, Kennedy and the Professor followed, Ben almost wetting himself when he saw their transport.

“They look like Hummers!”

A minute later the cars shot down an empty runway, picking up speed, aiming for a concealed exit at the back of the inconspicuous airfield that, after a few turns, emptied onto a discreet slip-road to join one of Manhattan’s main tributaries.

New York City stretched out before them in all its splendour. Modern skyscrapers, old bridges, classic architecture. Their convoy cut directly to the heart of the city, taking chances, using every wily short-cut known to their native drivers. Horns blared at them, curses curdled the air, kerbs and trash cans were clipped. On one occasion, a one-way street was employed that cut seven minutes off their journey and caused three fender-benders.