CHAPTER 62
John sat in the small parlor and listened as Aleks and Monica renewed their conversation. Aleks had excused himself and retreated outside to make a call. He’d stayed there for nearly half an hour, on and off the phone.
Apparently, Monica had struck a nerve.
First rule of making a good deal? Know what the other side wanted most. Second rule? Get control of it. Monica had done just that. The Russian had returned with the same scowl on his face, as if he might be constipated. Was it all an act? If so, it was a good one.
“We agree to leave you both alone, in exchange for accurate intelligence on the whereabouts of the defector.”
“Forgive me,” Monica said. “But your word can be… fluid.”
“That it can. But I am assuming you have a dead man’s switch in play.”
“Look at you, all current with your spy slang.”
“You were always careful. Until the past few days.”
“What can I say? Sometimes an operation can be fluid too.”
“Do you have a switch in play?”
“I do. I know a great deal. I have no intention of ever speaking of any of it. I am loyal to the motherland. That would change only if something happens to me or John. We just want to be left alone.”
“And you will be. Now where is Dmitry Lut?”
Monica told Aleks about the American’s deception with the codex, that its destruction had been anticipated and accomplished nothing, and that the book and the defector were on a plane heading south for Germany. Aleks quickly excused himself, and both he and the four men who’d stayed outside left.
Gone. Just like that.
“Are we truly done with them?” he asked Monica.
“You are never done with the SVR. But they are not without logic. They know I can hurt them. I would assume they will leave us alone until they need me again one day. We can deal with that when, and if, it happens.”
He asked, “And what does the future hold for us?”
“First, I plan to remove from your residence all of the hideous clothing that your wife loved to wear and donate it to charity.”
“And her jewelry?”
“We will auction it off for charity.”
He liked that.
“You can start over,” she said, “by dazzling me with extravagant purchases. Outrageous things. I will give you a list. Thankfully, you can afford them.”
“And what will you give me?”
He saw the twinkle in her eye. “Whatever you want.”
“You have apparently given this a lot of thought.”
“We will also be redecorating. It baffles me how someone with all the culture, education, and training that your wife possessed had such awful taste in furniture and clothes.”
He chuckled. “You do realize that I never gave a damn. I simply allowed her to do as she pleased.”
“I hope I will be extended the same courtesy.”
“Are we to be married?”
“After an appropriate time of mourning. As you have long wanted, your connection to the Swedish royal family will be over. You will be Sir John Westlake, billionaire, entrepreneur, philanthropist. Your reputation in England is impeccable. Any implications that you are a spy have been resolved and your name cleared. No one will be paying you, or us, any attention.”
“Surely they know of you and your SVR connections. Ms. Vitt was a good messenger for all of that.”
“Of course. But they have no proof of anything, and my statements to them will be that we both wanted out once we realized they intended to kill the princess. Moscow will say the opposite and confusion will reign. Nobody will be able to do anything.”
Made sense. “And our wedding?”
“A lovely affair, in the English countryside, with select friends. Neither of us have anything that resembles a family.”
“Black tie?”
“Of course. What else?”
“How silly of me to think otherwise. Forgive me, but do we not have to get out of this country first? Alive. Past not only your Russian associates but also the Swedes and the Americans, who are not going to be happy when I reappear. Stephanie Nelle is quite determined.” It was approaching lunchtime and he was hungry.
So he asked, “Could we also, perhaps, leave this island?”
“I suspect that my former employer is going to keep a close watch on us both until the information I gave them is confirmed. Maybe we should stay in Uppsala, not Stockholm, until all is resolved.”
“How will we know if everything works out?”
“Simple. We will still be breathing.”
Nothing about that sounded comforting.
“But I assure you,” she said. “Killing you or me will not be easy for them.”
And he believed that.
She checked her watch. “They have surely discovered that the information about the plane was correct. It would have been an easy matter to do. My guess is they are acting on that intelligence right now.”
Stephanie watched both the radar and the live feed, her heart pounding.
Two missiles were in the air.
One from the Russians headed toward the bridge and the EMB, the other from us toward the second fighter that was off to the west. Smart move on the colonel’s part to order that the second fighter be the target of his intentional miss. It should be enough to keep the other Sukhoi at bay.
Giving Cotton only one problem to deal with at a time.
Cotton kept the plane level and in a tight path.
The EMB was set to pass beneath the bridge just before the container ship, which had apparently noticed him and was sending out long, loud blasts of its horn.
The Sukhoi had fired one of its air-to-air missiles to take down the EMB, which was closing in on the target.
But they were now so close to the surface that the water, the ship, and the bridge would be obstacles.
Air-to-air missiles fell into two groups.
Short-range were designed to optimize agility and used infrared guidance.
Movies and TV called them heat-seeking missiles.
Medium- to long-range missiles relied on radar.
Both liked open spaces where their computers could work unimpeded.
But this was a visual war. Everything was happening relatively close.
The Russian missile was going to have to find him amid a multitude of radar clutter.
The ship. The containers. The bridge. The choppy water.
Clutter was his friend.
They roared past the container ship.
An explosion erupted from the top of the ship. Large. Violent. Taking out the top row of steel containers. The missile had locked onto the largest and closest target its infrared guidance could find.
They flew out the other side of the bridge.
Cotton pushed over on the yoke and added thrust, sending the EMB seeking altitude as they passed over Saltholm Island.
Flat chalk meadowlands and a rocky shore stretched below, the ground loaded with geese that also filled the air above.
He had to be careful with that. Too many planes had been brought down by birds.
He banked as they climbed and headed back north for the Swedish coast. Copenhagen loomed off to the south.
The starboard control surfaces were barely working and he had to force the plane into the turn.
The landing gear was still down. The Russian fighter that had fired the missile was ahead of them, coming in fast. But he also caught sight of an F-16 on the Sukhoi’s tail.
Thank goodness.
Hopefully the other fighter had been similarly engaged. The Sukhoi ahead of them kept coming but surely knew he had company, which meant that no more missiles would be used. He pushed the throttle forward and increased speed, accelerating their climb. The Russian raced toward them.
Tracer rounds came from cannon.
Then more fire.
Straight at them.