“Ha-ha, yeah. I suppose it does,” Klara replied smoothly. “I think with all the uncertainty around the world these days, countries are looking for ways to insulate their sources of power in ways that don’t leave them dependent on the whims of a dictator deciding he wants to take over his neighbor.”
Annika made a noncommittal sound and handed another customer a flat white. “Yeah, I suppose you are right. Are you still planning that bird-watching thing?”
“The Baltic Wings Festival?” Klara nodded. “Absolutely. There will be a lot of attention from ecotourists, especially now that NATO’s decided to treat Gotland like a forward base.”
Annika narrowed her eyes but said nothing.
Klara leaned in, voice soft. “It’s not what it looks like, I promise. They’re bureaucrats. Stiff, boring, and constantly jetlagged. I spent half the day explaining anaerobic digesters and the other half making sure they didn’t trip over SHORAD cables.”
That earned a short laugh from Annika. “Well, if anyone can wrangle that crowd, it’s you.”
“Exactly,” Klara said. “It’s all harmless. Besides, I’d rather be arguing solar grid stability than listening to more NATO artillery echoing across the coast.”
Annika gave her a skeptical once-over, then poured Klara her usual tea and joined her at the bar. “If you say so. Just don’t bring any drama to my café.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Klara replied sweetly, though she could still feel Cao’s last glare burning behind her eyes.
She sipped her St. Hans Blend slowly, portraying a practiced calm on the outside. But inside, she was already rewriting the contingency plan for her escape.
The light in Klara’s kitchen was low, and the blinds were drawn tight. She moved with silent efficiency, opening a sideboard that held folded linen and placemats — at least on the surface. Behind the stacked tablecloths, a thin false backing slid away, revealing a narrow compartment no larger than a shoebox.
Inside was the red go bag: matte fabric, unbranded, soft-sided. It contained a rolled bundle of euro notes — none larger than twenties — a slim RFID-shielded wallet with two different national ID cards, a burner phone, and an Estonian passport in the name of Liisa Tark.
Next to it sat a nylon pouch with a handful of USB drives, a small GPS tracker, and a clean SIM pack. She checked everything, fingers moving fast but methodically.
Then she closed it, slid the panel back into place, and refolded the linens with care.
In the bathroom, she flushed a single index card she’d used to sketch a new extraction route — from Visby to Nynäshamn via the early freight ferry, then across to Riga by bus.
She would begin staying more nights at Lars’s place — claiming it helped her sleep better with him gone so often. That way, if anyone came snooping here, they wouldn’t find her home. And Lars wouldn’t have an excuse to stop by unannounced. It also meant less chance of him stumbling on her other contingencies, like the key to the storage unit on the north end of town — rented under a different name — that was currently secured inside her makeup bag. Inside that unit, she’d started storing nonperishable food, a field medical kit, a few changes of clothes, and a collapsible bicycle.
Tonight, she’d head to the co-op market and use self-checkout to withdraw small amounts of cash using her debit card — never more than a few hundred kronor at a time. She would spread these withdrawals out over multiple stores, over multiple nights.
1. Rotate the phone.
2. Update ferry schedules.
3. Buy burner charger with power brick.
4. Prepare second go bag.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before minimizing the window and pulling up the birding website she used as her cover.
She added a cheery post about the upcoming white-tailed eagle observation walk, then shut the laptop and leaned back in her chair.
The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the kitchen clock. Outside, the wind howled faintly across the eaves. Klara exhaled slowly.
It was all about timing now. She wasn’t sure whether she’d see the trap before it snapped shut.
Torres smirked at Novak. The scent of charred meat and cheap vodka drifted through the chill, growing stronger the closer they got to the noise. The pub door creaked open, spilling a wave of heat and sound. Torres stayed close behind Major Kowalski, squinting into the steamy air as Polish rock music thundered from hidden speakers overhead. His eyes adjusted to the amber glow and the crush of bodies — talking, shouting, singing all at once.
“Welcome to the
