Page 116 of The Collector
“I’ll have to arrange it with the Border Guard. How many in your party?”
“Four.”
“Who are the other three?”
“Person A, Person B, and Person C.”
“Americans?”
“I’ll leave that up to you, Director Vasala.”
The Finnishspy chief gave McNeil the location of a suitable holding point about ten kilometers from the border and instructed him towait there until further notice. It turned out to be a car park shared by a supermarket and a bed-and-breakfast. McNeil headed into the hotel in search of hot coffee and food, and returned to the Audi a few minutes later to find Mikhail ramming a magazine into the butt of a Jericho pistol.
“What is that for?” asked McNeil.
“Shooting Russians.”
“Just to be clear,” said the American evenly, “no Russians are going to be shot today.”
“Unless they try something foolish.”
“Like what?”
“Take a good look at the man sitting directly behind me,” replied Mikhail.
Eli Lavon, eyes on his laptop, elaborated. “The goal of this morning’s operation, Mr. McNeil, is twofold. The safe return of Ingrid and Magnus Larsen is our first priority. But equally important is that Gabriel Allon, the man the Russian president hates most in the world, remains in Finland. Frankly, he’s too close to Russia as it is.”
“We’re ten kilometers from the border.”
“My point exactly,” said Lavon. “And in a few minutes, we’ll be tenmetersfrom the border. Which is why Gabriel and Mikhail will both be armed.”
“Not you?”
“Oh, no,” said Lavon. “I’ve never been one for the rough stuff.”
McNeil handed Gabriel an insulated paper cup and a small sack. The cup was filled with milky Finnish coffee. The sack contained something crusty and dark. Gabriel regarded it dubiously.
“It’s a Karelian pasty,” explained McNeil. “Rye pastry filled with rice porridge. Very traditional.”
Gabriel, famished, gave it a try.
“What do you think?”
“I think you should probably answer your phone.”
It was Teppo Vasala calling from Helsinki. McNeil listened in silence for a moment, then severed the connection. “Let’s go.”
Mikhail slipped his Jericho into the pocket of his coat and turned onto the highway. A blue-and-white sign, scarcely visible through the falling snow, gave the distance to the border crossing at Vaalimaa.
“For the record,” said Eli Lavon, “you are now nine kilometers closer to Russia than you should be.”
They were waved through a pair of checkpoints and directed to the Border Guard command post. Waiting outside was a Nordic giant called Esko Nurmi. He wore a Glock on his hip and on his face an expression of disdain for lesser beings. After exchanging a few Finnish pleasantries with Tom McNeil, he thrust an enormous hand toward Gabriel.
“Which one are you?” asked the towering Finn. “Person A, Person B, or Person C?”
“Does it matter?”
“Only if something goes wrong.”
