Warm Bodies in a Cold War by Diana Deverell

Author:Diana Deverell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Sorrel Press
Published: 2014-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

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THE FIRST CHAPTER FROM NIGHT ON FIRE

I was racing toward disaster.

The night before, a chartered MD-11 Trijet had blown up after takeoff from Bangor International, killing all four hundred and eight people on board. I was the State Department’s representative on a federal terrorism task force and I had to be on the 6:00 PM. Global Airlines flight from Copenhagen to New York. I dodged around less hasty travelers, a blond woman in no-name running shoes loping past Kastrup Airport’s duty-free shops.

Brilliant strips of neon in primary colors slid by me. I saw masses of Nordic furs, Swedish vodka, Georg Jensen pipes. Passed travelers lugging heavy bags from the liquor store. Spotted a plainclothes cop dressed too warmly for a Danish June, scrutinizing the passersby.

Up ahead the readerboard listed the status of departing flights. Beyond, harshly lit corridors branched off toward the gates.

A six-foot monument blocked my path. The cop, immovable as stone. I stopped abruptly, breathing hard. I moved to one side. So did he.

He was slightly stooped, topcoat hanging open in front, showing the regulation white shirt and tie, concealing the reason for his underarm bulge.

I flashed my passport, black with the gold embossed eagle beneath the logo. DIPLOMATIC, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. “US State Department,” I said. “Urgent and official business.”

“My business is also official.” The cop’s eyes were charcoal, pouched in sooty-colored flesh that gave his face a melancholy cast. “Also urgent,” he added somberly. “You are Kathryn Collins?”

The worried gaze, the regretful tone. A messenger of death. My alarm was instant.

“Stefan Krajewski?” I asked. “Has something happened to Stefan?”

His forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know that name,” he began slowly, “but—”

I interrupted. “My father?”

His features smoothed out. “I have no news of your family.”

Not my lover. Not my father. I shifted my weight from right foot to left, ready to sidestep him again. “I don’t have time—”

He pushed his card toward me. “This is official business of the Danish police.”

Reluctantly, I took the card and read. POLITIASSISTENT NIELS-JØRGEN JESPERSEN. And under that in French, LIAISON, CORPS DIPLOMATIQUE. The policeman assigned to interview members of the diplomatic corps when they ran afoul of Danish law.

A mistake then, stopping me. The digital clock on the departures board read five-fifty. “I can’t miss this flight. You’ll have to talk to someone at the embassy.”

“I have spoken with your security officer.”

“Bella Hinton? Didn’t she tell you? I don’t have time for this.”

“I must ask you to come with me,” he said unhappily.

“You know an American airliner exploded last night in Maine?”

His nod was mournful. “And you will be taking part in that investigation.”

Not a question. So Bella had told him why I was leaving Denmark. I said, “I have to be in Bangor tomorrow morning.”

“That will not be possible.” A pair of uniformed policemen appeared beneath the fluorescent lights behind him, coming our way. I felt the short hairs rise on the back of my neck.

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