Read Online The Cold Edge by Trevor Scott - Free Book Online

your friend’s place.”
    â€œHe’s got a kiosk down in The Barras.”
    Great. The Barras was a market in Glasgow where one could get just about anything, including mugged. Kiosks and booths lined the streets, which had been closed off. Many of the items were of questionable legality. It took them a half hour to get there.
    McLean got out, made sure his wallet was securely buttoned into his back pocket, and checked his gun under his left arm. A comfort. For every step he took, Dixon took four.
    They found the kiosk, which sold everything from Scottish trinkets to Troll dolls. McLean noticed he even had his clan crest on key rings and coffee mugs. The man behind the counter was much older than Dixon, but around the same height. Only this guy’s gut was bigger than his head. He had built a ledge that ran the length of the booth, putting him close to McLean’s level.
    â€œThis is the guy,” the kiosk man said. His voice came out like it traveled across broken glass.
    â€œYeah,” Dixon said. “Tell him what you told me.”
    â€œWhat about a little consideration?”
    â€œSo, you want me to pay you by the inch? Or the quality of the information?”
    â€œYou were right, Gary. He’s pretty funny for a big guy.”
    McLean glanced around and finally pulled out a combo cell phone slash PDA, caught a signal, touched in a figure, and closed the browser. “There. I just transferred some money to Dixon’s bank account.”
    â€œYou’re shittin’ me, right?” the kiosk man said.
    â€œDead serious.”
    â€œYou can check the balance at the ATM at the end of the street,” the man said to Dixon.
    Dixon started off but McLean grabbed him by the collar. “You’ll have to trust me. Now quit yanking me around and tell me what you know. Or I can take the both of you in and we can talk in a little room.”
    The kiosk man leaned onto the counter toward McLean and said, “All right. I heard there was a Soviet MiG that went down back in the eighties on some Norwegian island up in the Arctic. Some kind of spy mission. Real secret type stuff. The Americans, the CIA, were on it like a Highlander on Haggis. So were the KGB. But none of them got off the island. I heard that for some reason both side gave up on it, but I don’t know why.”
    â€œWhat was on the plane?” McLean asked.
    â€œMy contact said it was some kind of weapon. Something the old Soviets had developed. Word was sent out to start the bidding.”
    â€œWithout even knowing what it was?” McLean asked. That was almost impossible to believe.
    â€œWell, the Russians know what it is,” the kiosk man explained.”
    McLean had him. “So your contact is Russian.”
    â€œI didn’t say that,” the man said emphatically.
    Not wanting to argue, knowing he already knew the answer, McLean leaned in a little closer and said, “Where is this going down?”
    â€œI don’t know. Some island in the Arctic. Spits or Swallows.”
    â€œSpitsbergen?”
    â€œSounds about right.”
    McLean considered that. He had never been to the Svalbard Archipelago, but he had seen a BBC documentary on the islands a few years back. “Why is something going down now? How do you know?”
    â€œHow much money did you put in Gary’s account?”
    â€œEnough. There’ll be more once I verify the information. Now answer the question.”
    â€œHe has a temper,” the man said to Dixon. To McLean he said, “Some American hired a guy named Jake Adams to find the MiG. He’s there right now.”
    Jake Adams? McLean had never met the man, but another friend of his at MI6, Sinclair Tucker, had mentioned the man often. Adams was former Air Force Intel and former CIA. He was now a security consultant of some kind. Private. But he had been called back by the Agency a few times in the recent past. If Adams had been hired,