Authors: Martin Molsted
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery, #Political, #Retail, #Thrillers
Chasing the Storm (27 page)
“Tell us,” she gently urged.
“Haven’t you seen? This is why Sokolov needed us. We were part of the game; we were on
his
side the whole time. And what a strange and beautiful place to put the last piece of the puzzle into place.” He stretched out a hand to the hills and the smoke from his cigarette joined the tendrils rising out there. “The center of Africa.”
“Marko …” Lena said tenderly.
He nodded. “Okay. Sokolov played it almost straight. As straight as he could, really, without giving the game away. He watched me gather the information, piece things together. Yuri, Ann Devonshire, the Ministry of Defense. With Sasha feeding him the information it was almost absurdly easy. There were a couple things that threw him off. Your involvement, of course, Torgrim. But he was able to adjust admirably to the changing situation. He knew that I would begin to suspect something, so in Moscow he had to come close to killing us, to convince us that he was serious. But he wasn’t prepared for your resourcefulness, Torgrim. He didn’t expect that you would escape in the resort, for example. But he dealt with it very well. Through Sasha, he could feed us little bits of information here and there. And finally, in Larnaca, I had put the puzzle together, and published it. But it was
his
puzzle. I was publishing
his
document.” He tapped the ash off his cigarette and gave a little chuckle. “You see, Sokolov knew that it would be almost impossible for Russia to get the missiles to Iran. They had tried it before, in 2004, and the ship had been taken by Mossad off Corsica. There are too many people watching. Watching the movement of weapons, watching the ports, watching the money. Mossad and the CIA have deeply infiltrated both Iran and Russia.
“So this time, Sokolov decided on a new tactic. He would once again try to smuggle the weapons, using the same high levels of secrecy. But there was one small difference this time. One tiny difference.” He paused and looked around at them. “The weapons were not on the boat.”
“
What
?” Rygg said.
“No, you are wrong,” Dmitri waggled a finger. “Even the Siberian I spoke to—”
Marin raised a hand. “Wait,” he said. “Listen. There were twelve shells on the
Alpensturm
. Twelve replicas of the S-400 missiles, identical in every way, except that they contained no explosives. Filled with cement, probably.”
“So this whole thing has been a wild goose chase for nothing?” Rygg was completely exasperated.
“Listen to the brilliance of Sokolov’s scheme. The simple brilliance. He knew all along that the ship would dock eventually at Larnaca port, which is only 200 kilometers from the Syrian coast. Under heavy police scrutiny, and with journalists from around the world watching and filming the whole procedure, twelve long objects are removed from the
Alpensturm
, transported to the airport, and loaded onto the An-124. Perfect cover. Incontrovertibly, the missiles are being returned to Russia and the whole episode is over. Mossad has won this round. But what Mossad and we and nobody else realized was that the real missiles, twelve genuine S-400s, had been flown
in
on the An-124. They were offloaded at the airport, presumably warehoused in a hangar.
“The next night, when everything had blown over and all the journalists had gone home, the
Alpensturm
was quietly moved to another berth, and given a new name and new papers. I suppose that these were prepared long in advance. Then, in the simplest way possible, the real missiles were driven in, loaded onto what was now the
Diana
, and ferried across the Aegean to Syria. They have, I would guess, been in Iran for nearly a week. And nobody would have known, if it had not been for Dmitri’s grandfather’s silver-and-amber cross.”
The three of them sat staring at Marin in stunned silence. “So in the hotel in Larnaca …” said Rygg. “When Lena and I were there with Sokolov …” He was having a hard time disentangling the real from the fake.
Marin nodded. “That, at last, was genuine,” he said. “He would really have tortured you until he gathered the information he needed. I had published, which was what he wanted, but then he needed me out of the way, so I could not do … what I am doing now. Discovering the true evil of the plot.”
On the way back down to Bujumbura, they hardly spoke. Rygg kept going back over the events of the last few weeks and shaking his head. “It’s not possible.
Ikke faen
. It’s not fucking possible,” he said, over and over. Lena sat in back with Marin, clutching his arm.
Marin directed the taxi to drive down to a hotel along the lake and they got out. The hotel was tiny – just six rooms – and had a lawn fronting the lake. Before they went to their rooms, they walked across to the little stony beach. Two fishermen were poling an outrigger dugout, dropping a net. Kingfishers clung to the air. The sun was setting behind the Congolese mountains across the lake.
Marin gathered a handful of stones and stood with the tips of his shoes in the water, letting the gentle waves lap over them. He cast them out into the water, watching them land with little ripples and hearing the splash from their impact.
“So what are you going to do now?” Rygg asked him. “Are you going to publish Dmitri’s story?”
Marin shook his head. He tossed another stone. “The missiles are in Iran. Sokolov has won.”
“So you’re just going to let Sokolov get away with it?”
“You asked if I was going to publish Dmitri’s story. I am not. But Sokolov … Yes, we will have to somehow deal with Sokolov …”
“And what about you, Torgrim?” Lena asked, taking his arm. “What are you going to do now?”
He looked out across the lake. He felt suddenly very tired. “Well, the first thing I’m going to do is have a good meal and a nice long sleep. And then, you know what I might do?”
“What?” she asked gently.
“I might just look up Ann Devonshire from Dover,” he said. “She was good company and I could use a Scrabble game or two.”
Lena laughed and laid her head on his shoulder. She grabbed Marin’s elbow with her other arm and dragged him to her. “My two men,” she said.
“
Å, fanken
!” said Rygg suddenly.
Marin and Lena looked at him in alarm. “What is it, Torgrim?” Lena asked.
“I left
Anna Karenina
in the fucking taxi,” he said. “I only had one chapter to go.”
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About the author
Martin Molsted
Martin Molsted (aka Martin Mølsted aka Martin Mölsted) lives in a small place called Asker, between the greater cities Oslo and Drammen, Norway. He is married and lives together with his wife and two daughters. No cat. No dogs. He is an archivist, writer, and film producer.
Chasing The Storm is his debut novel and several more are on the way.
Visit him on
http://www.molstedfiction.com
Acknowledgements
To my beloved wife for your knowledge, patience and love and for sticking with me through all these years, to my fantastic daughters for your endless supply of laughs, fun, pranks and love, my sister, mum and dad.
Thanks to
Keith, Jill and Brian for insightful advice and edits and to Dexter Petley and Harry Bingham of The Writers’ Workshop UK for great help and advice – without you there would be no novel.
Table of Contents
