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I took it from him. “Right out here in the open, huh?”
“It would be far more suspicious if we met in some darkened back alley.”
“What about at your workplace?”
Alistair smiled without humor. “That will never happen.”
“Aren’t you worried somebody could take photos of us?”
“Not particularly.”
Okay, then.
“Open it now?” I asked as I tapped the envelope.
“Go ahead.”
Inside, I found a sheaf of papers, a cheap cell phone, and a UK passport.
I opened the passport and saw my picture staring back at me –
But with a new name beside it.
“Lars Kinberg?” I asked.
“Just for this job. You’ll get a new identity for each assignment.”
There was also a driver’s license and credit card with ‘Lars Kinberg’ on them, along with a stack of 50,000 Norwegian Krone – roughly 4400 euros or $4700 US.
“Use the credit card only if it would raise suspicion not to,” Alistair instructed. “Hotels, that sort of thing. Pay cash for everything else. Whatever you don’t use, I’m going to need back.”
“Where am I going?”
“Kirkenes, Norway. Up in the Arctic Circle.”
“Sounds cold.”
“It’s freezing. Appropriate gear will be provided for you when you arrive, but take some warm clothes anyways.”
“What about a car? Am I supposed to rent one?”
“A man will meet you at the airport with your name on a piece of paper – your new name. He’s one of ours. He’ll take you to a car and give you the keys.”
I flipped through the passport. The pages were filled with stamps from other countries – Sweden, Greece, Norway, Spain. “Impressive. It looks like I actually went to these places.”
“You did,” Alistair said with a slight smile. “If anyone checks, they’ll find airline records with ‘Lars Kinberg’ listed as a passenger on those dates. The reasons for your travel are in your dossier. Memorize them.”
Your dossier.
I thumbed through the sheaf of papers.
“Your cover story is all there,” Alistair said. “After you’ve memorized it, destroy it.”
Along with the papers, I found a surveillance photo of a fifty-something man in an expensive suit. He had curly grey hair and a worried-looking face.
“Your target is a Norwegian national named Hans Solner,” Alistair said. “He’ll be on vacation at his estate near Kirkenes for the next three days. He likes to ice fish – that’s where we suggest you take him. He’ll have a bodyguard with him, maybe two.”
I glanced around. No one else was sitting outside the café, but I couldn’t help but check that no one had overheard.
