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He was impaled on Njord’s spear.
Somehow, someone—or something? Surely nothing human could do this—something had raised this man up and jammed him onto the point of the old sea god’s spear, straight up his arse, leaving the poor bastard up there—alive somehow, though clearly that was just a matter of time.
And as Per stared in horror, the speared man swung his head from side to side spasmodically, and Per caught a glimpse of his face.
It was Arvid.
PART 2
12
FBI Special Agent in Charge Dellmore Finn was pissed off. As head of the Task Force for International Arms Regulation and Enforcement, he always had plenty to be pissed off about. Half the job involved making nice to foreign officials, which was enough to give heartburn to a brass monkey. And most of them were pissed off because the mighty USA had sent them a black man and put him in charge, and he had to make them like it. The rest of the time he was dealing with the ATF trying to take away all his cases, right when all the legwork was done.
So being pissed off was all part of a normal day’s work. But this—this was special. A senior agent who was nominally under his command, and who was supposed to be tracking an arms dealer they believed to be supplying weapons to terrorist groups—the guy had up and vanished. Gone for a week without a word, without a please and thank-you or “SAC, may I”—nothing. This was an agent with a lot of seniority and a big reputation for getting results. But he also had an even bigger reputation for flying solo, chasing one particular bug in his bonnet, over and over, and so far without success. So Finn had to treat the man with a certain amount of respect. But he also had to make him stay with the program. If this guy screwed the pooch, it would splash on Finn.
Because of the reputation and the seniority, Finn had said nothing when this agent vanished. But now he was back, sitting across from Finn’s desk with a blank face and a story that made no sense at all. “Sweden,” Finn said, letting the disbelief and the pissed-off show in his voice. “You were in Sweden.”
Special Agent Frank Delgado just nodded.
“Because Husqvarna was having a sale? Maybe you prefer blond women?” Finn asked.
Delgado shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “They’re always more trouble.”
“Uh-huh.” Finn studied Delgado. Nearing forty, stocky build; his dark hair was a little too long for a federal agent, his suit was old and rumpled, and his top shirt button was undone. In short, he did not look at all like a special agent of the FBI. Presently he looked more like somebody’s longshoreman uncle dressed up for a wedding. But Delgado had flown close to the sun his whole career, and so far he’d gotten away with it, because he got results. So Finn took a deep breath and simply said, “Right. So why, Frank? Why Sweden?”
Delgado opened the manila folder on his lap, removed an eight-by-ten glossy picture, and slid it onto Finn’s desk. Finn waited for an explanation. He didn’t get one. So he bit down on what he wanted to say and looked at the picture. “Hervé Thierry,” he read. “French national.” He looked up at Delgado. “Arms dealer?”
Delgado shook his head.
“Terrorist?” Finn said hopefully.
“No,” Delgado said.
“Then why do I care?”
“He got off a flight in Dallas,” Delgado said.
Finn waited. Delgado said nothing more. “Dallas,” Finn said. “Which is why you went to Sweden.”
Maddeningly, Delgado nodded again.
Finn sighed heavily. “Because?” he prompted.
“The flight came from Stockholm,” Delgado said. And apparently trying to be helpful, he added, “That’s in Sweden.”
Finn hissed a breath between his teeth. His patience was eroding fast. “I know where Stockholm is, Frank. What I don’t know is why I give a shit about this guy. Thierry.” He flipped the picture back to Delgado. “So why don’t you tell me.”
Delgado nodded and reached back into the manila folder. This time, he slid an Interpol report across the desk. Finn picked it up. There were several pages stapled together, and Finn flipped through them quickly. “St. Petersburg. In Russia,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Delgado. There were several photos, and Finn looked them over. “Security camera, forensics—your guy Thierry was at the Hermitage Museum when their Fabergé egg was stolen.” Again Finn looked at Delgado. “You think Thierry stole the egg, Frank?”
“I know it,” Delgado said.
Finn opened his mouth to ask why Delgado was so damn sure—and then closed it again. He examined the last page of the report and put it down on his desk. “You do remember we’re doing arms enforcement, right? Not robbery from the fucking Russians?”
“I remember,” Delgado said, without changing expression.
“So all this is going somewhere connected with arms enforcement, right?”
Delgado nodded.
