by Brad Thor
Harvath, though, had developed a plan as well. The United States didn’t intend to be drawn into another world war in Europe. It also didn’t intend to let the greatest military alliance in history be dissolved. No matter what the cost, Harvath couldn’t allow the Russians to succeed.
He had been set up in an officer’s quarters on the north side of the airfield in the Værnes Garrison. It smelled like stale carpet and looked as if it had been furnished for a hundred bucks spent at a local IKEA store.
He could hear Monika Jasinski coming down the hallway. Tucking his phone into his back pocket, he walked over and opened the door.
She confronted him right away. “The Norwegians are looking for you. They want to chat about the dead guy. Might have been a good idea to check in with someone before leaving the scene.”
Before he could reply, she continued on. “Would you care to explain to me what happened out there? We were specifically told that we couldn’t carry weapons here. How was it that you had a pistol?”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
His response took her by surprise. “For what?”
Fingering the rip in her parka where the shrapnel had just missed her neck, he replied, “For saving your life.”
Color rose to her cheeks. He couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or growing angrier.
Turning her head away, she murmured, “Thank you.”
He stood back so she could enter.
At a small table sat a gray-haired man with a thin mustache. He wore a dark turtleneck and gray trousers. A pillar of blue smoke rose from the cigarette in the ashtray in front of him.
Jasinski looked at him. “Who’s this?”
Using the heel of his boot to shut the door, Harvath introduced her. “Monika Jasinski, meet Carl Pedersen. Carl is NIS. Norwegian Intelligence Service”
“I know what NIS is,” she responded, confused as to what the man was doing there.
Pedersen rose and they shook hands. “Scot tells me you’re with Polish Military Intelligence. Currently billeted at NATO?”
Jasinski nodded. “The terrorism intelligence cell. I don’t understand. What does any of this have to do with Norway’s foreign intelligence service?”
“Carl is our liaison,” said Harvath.
“No, he isn’t. This is a NATO investigation. We liaise with our local counterparts.”
“Your English is remarkable,” Pedersen interjected, changing the subject. “Barely any hint of an accent.”
“I’m Polish, but was raised in Chicago. We moved back to Krakow when I was twelve.” Noticing a pile of cell phones stacked nearby, she then asked, “Where did those come from? Please don’t say they’re from the dead guy who fled the cabin.”
“I told you she was smart,” said Harvath as he walked over to the table, picked up a bottle of aquavit, and grabbed one of the shot glasses for her.
“I’m not thirsty,” she insisted.
“Drink,” Pedersen urged. “You’ll feel better.”
“Excuse me, NIS, but you don’t have the slightest idea how I—”
Harvath handed her the glass, pulled the cork from the bottle, and filled it. “It wasn’t our fault,” he said. “The Norwegian police had already decided they were going to go in. They had all the cell members in one place. Our being here had no impact on their decision.”
Jasinski leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and exhaled. “They got slaughtered. It was like a war zone. The Norwegians should have been warned.”
“We were,” Pedersen admitted.
She didn’t believe him. “By whom?”
“By me,” replied Harvath.
“You? I don’t understand. I was told we couldn’t discuss the other attacks. What’s going on?”
Setting the bottle back on the table, Harvath pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
There were a lot of things he wanted to tell her—such as who he really worked for, why he had been sent, and why he had chosen her for this assignment—but he couldn’t, not yet.
He had studied her file backward and forward. She had come highly recommended and he knew practically everything about her.
Monika Amelia Jasinski. Thirty-one years old. Five-foot-seven. Blonde hair, wide hazel, almost doelike eyes. Her father had been attached to the Polish Trade Commission in Chicago. After high school in Krakow, she had attended Poland’s National Defense University. From there, she entered the Polish Army where she distinguished herself in military intelligence with multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.
When NATO stood up its new Joint Intelligence and Security Division at Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, or SHAPE, she was tapped for a key position as an investigator in its terrorism intelligence cell. She had more than proven herself worthy.
“What’s this all about?” she asked as Harvath topped off his glass, as well as Pedersen’s.
“You were right,” he replied.
“About what?”
“About all of it. Three attacks. Three dead diplomats. A sniper in Portugal, a car bomb in Spain, a shooter on a motorcycle in Greece. They’re all connected to a larger plot. And now we add Norway.”
Jasinski took a sip of the strong liquor. It was rewarding to hear someone reaffirm that she had correctly connected the dots. But by the same token, she still had no idea who Harvath was really working for.
They had met on a tarmac less than twelve hours ago. Allegedly, he had been sent by the NATO command based in the United States. The Supreme Allied Command Transformation, or SACT, was headquartered in Norfolk, Virginia. Its job was to come up with new, revolutionary concepts to keep NATO on the cutting edge.
As far as she was concerned, SACT was simply a glorified think tank. And sitting there in his jeans and T-shirt, Harvath didn’t strike her as the think tank type. He didn’t look like someone who sat behind a desk all day. He was too fit.
He looked like someone used to being challenged physically. There was a steeliness to him, a seriousness. He was someone who had seen bad things, and who had probably done his share of them as well.
He was also a bit too handsome. He had strong, masculine features, but she couldn’t get over the intensity of his deep blue eyes.
It was shallow of her, she knew, but this wasn’t the kind of man who toiled away at a place like SACT. She’d be willing to bet her career on it.
Also bothering her was that in the short time since they had met, not only had he smuggled a weapon into a foreign country, violated the chain of command, killed one of the operation’s targets, and stolen evidence, but he was holding out on her. There was something he wasn’t telling her. She was certain of it.
Her face must have given away her thoughts because Harvath looked at her and asked, “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “You’re not here because I was right in connecting the previous attacks to a larger picture.”
“I’m not?”
“No. You’re here because the United States now has skin in this game. Those other attacks weren’t personal. But once this terror group decided to blow up caves full of American military equipment, suddenly it’s game on and here you are.”
He liked her instincts. They were on the money. But there was still a lot she didn’t know. “Trust me,” he offered. “You and I are both on the same side.”
“Really? And what side is that?”
“We both want this group stopped.”
Pointing at the stack of cell phones, she stated, “I think you and I have very different ideas about how best to do that.”
“Right now? Maybe. But let me ask you something. Do you want to win?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” he said. “Do you want to win? It’s a simple question.”
What was with this guy? “Of course I do,” she replied. “I didn’t come here to lose.”
“Good. If we’re going to win, though, we have to get creative together.�
��
“We? I don’t even know who you work for, or why I got stuck with you.”
“I’m the guy who’s going to help you win.”
She looked at him. “Help me how? By stealing evidence? Killing suspects?”
“Monika, the enemy we’re facing doesn’t follow a rulebook. If we want to win, we have to do the same.”
“Something tells me the Norwegians might not see it your way.”
Harvath glanced at Pedersen. “Am I going to have any problems with Norway?”
Pedersen extended his hand and made the sign of the cross. “You’re absolved.”
Jasinski stared at both of them. “Somebody needs to explain to me what the hell is going on.”
“What’s going on is us getting one step ahead.”
“One step ahead of who? Everyone from that cabin is dead.”
Harvath set his glass down. “I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about the people behind them. The people who ultimately planned and coordinated the attacks that killed a NATO diplomat in Portugal, another in Spain, and a third in Greece.”
“Are you talking about some sort of leadership structure?”
Slowly, he nodded.
“Do you know who they are?” she asked. “Or even where they are?”
“We’re working on it.”
“So what’s the plan? Shoot and steal our way across Europe until we find them?”
“Would that be a problem?”
“What it would be,” she replied, “is illegal.”
“You let me worry about what’s illegal,” said Harvath.
She shook her head.
“What?”
“I don’t even know who you really work for,” she responded.
“I told you,” he began, repeating his cover story. “I’m a consultant—”
“Mysteriously sent from NATO’s strategic command back in the United States. Even if I did believe that, there’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t like mysteries.”
He looked at her. “Let’s be clear. You volunteered to come along.”
Jasinski laughed. “When the Supreme Allied Commander personally calls you into his office and offers you an assignment, you take it. Any assignment.”
“I can ask him to find me somebody else.”
“Someone as up to speed as I am? Good luck. You’d be starting from square one. I bring more to this than anyone else at SHAPE.”
She was correct, in more ways than she realized.
“So then are you in?” he asked.
Moments passed. He was calling her bluff.
“I’m in,” she finally replied. “But understand something. The only things I like less than mysteries are surprises.”
Harvath smiled. He didn’t like surprises either, but unfortunately, there were many more in store—for both of them.
CHAPTER 8
* * *
OUTSIDE WARSAW, POLAND
The thieves worked quickly, but carefully. Wearing baseball caps and dark clothing, they expertly hid their faces from the closed-circuit television cameras.
Once the merchandise they had stolen from the truck had been transferred to their van, they exited the parking lot and made their getaway.
As far as they could tell, no one had seen them—not even the American soldiers whom they had just robbed. Even so, it only took one person to call in a report to the police. They had to be extra cautious.
In order to avoid authorities, the thieves had decided to stay off the main motorway. They used rural back roads. It took longer, but it was safer. If they were caught, it would cause a major international incident.
The theft of American military equipment on Polish soil would be extremely embarrassing for Poland, especially because this wasn’t the first time it had happened. In advance of a joint readiness drill in the fall, night-vision goggles and other assorted gear worth more than $50,000 U.S. had been nicked from a cargo container at the port of Gdansk.
This time, though, the cargo was much more sophisticated and the implications for the region much more serious. Mere mention of what the U.S. soldiers were allegedly transporting had the potential to destabilize the entire region. The case could even be made that it had the potential to upend the entire geopolitical order.
The team that had been sent in to commit the robbery, though, couldn’t occupy themselves with the big picture. Not now. They had to focus on transporting the cargo to a predetermined location without encountering any members of law enforcement or the military. Something much easier said than done, especially in Poland where cops had a habit of popping up in the most unusual of places, at the worst of times, and often with a keen interest in anyone and everyone, no matter how benign they might appear.
While this was likely due in part to the healthy suspicion endemic in all law enforcement agencies, it was Poland. Only thirty years earlier, it had still been under the yoke of the Soviet police state. Suspicion was woven into the DNA of entire generations of Poles. Patrol officers back then were police academy instructors and even agency commanders now. Echoes of the old days still reverberated across the country.
Not wanting to leave a trail of digital breadcrumbs as they passed from one cell tower to another, the thieves had disassembled their phones and placed them in a signal-blocking pouch. Similarly, they had chosen an older vehicle and had not employed a GPS unit to assist them in their navigation. They had gone “pre-tech.” While the driver drove, the passenger navigated using a red-lensed flashlight and a detailed paper map.
With practiced military experience, the passenger called out upcoming turns and forks in the road, then repeated them for certainty. The driver parroted each direction back.
It took several hours to get to the drop-off location. Once they arrived, the passenger removed a semiautomatic WIST-94 pistol, conducted a press check to confirm a round was chambered, and exited the van.
The night air was cold. The sky was clear and crowded with stars. They were in the countryside. The chilly breeze brought with it the scent of livestock.
After taking a quick look around, the passenger reappeared, and flung open the doors to an old, decrepit barn. The driver advanced the van inside. Waiting for them was a silver Škoda Kodiaq SUV.
After wiping down the van for fingerprints, the driver and passenger unloaded the crates they had stolen from the American soldiers.
The Škoda, seats already folded down, was ready to receive the cargo. As they emptied each crate, they cast it aside.
Once everything was loaded, they covered it with blankets, and the driver pulled the SUV forward, out of the barn. Closing the heavy wooden doors behind him, the passenger got into the vehicle.
“Ready?” the driver asked.
The passenger nodded and, pulling up the onboard GPS, plotted their course for Belarus.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
KALININGRAD
Oleg Tretyakov’s cell phone woke him from a sound sleep. Even in the dark, he knew which one it was. He could tell by the ringtone.
Only a handful of people had the number. But no matter who it was, they had bad news. There was no other reason to be calling that phone at this hour. Reaching over, he depressed the power button, thereby declining the call. Instantly, the phone fell silent.
He picked up his watch and looked at the time. It felt as if he had just gone to sleep.
Throwing back the duvet, he got out of bed. The apartment was cold. He put on his robe, picked up his laptop, and headed for the kitchen.
The timer on the coffee machine had been set for 5:00 a.m. Overriding it, he began the brewing now. He wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep. And whatever problem had required waking him in the middle of the night, he wanted to be as sharp as possible for it.
As the coffee machine gurgled to life, he pulled out a stool, sat down, and powered up his computer.
Russia had the largest Internet population in Europe and
the sixth largest in the world. With over 109 million users, monitoring people’s every keystroke was virtually impossible. To ferret out dissidents and spot potential trouble, the Russian government used highly sophisticated algorithms to monitor its citizens. The algorithms searched for thousands upon thousands of keywords and phrases. But despite their sophistication, a lot of traffic was swept up that posed no threat to the Russian state.
A colonel in Russia’s vaunted military intelligence unit, the GRU, he knew how to mask his Internet usage. He didn’t have anything to hide from his own government, but operational security was of paramount importance in his business. Spies within the Russian security apparatus were always a possibility, as were hostile foreign nations hacking from the outside.
Via an anonymous portal controlled by his headquarters near Moscow, he logged on to one of his dummy social media accounts. From there, he leapfrogged over to a benign photographer’s profile, scrolled back through the correct number of posts, and “liked” an obscure photo. With that, his contact would know that he had received the phone call and was online.
Tretyakov stroked the manicured beard that covered his lean face. He had prominent cheekbones, dark receding hair, and dark brown, almost black eyes—gifts from his ancestors who had migrated from the Kalmyk Steppe.
Though he stood six-feet tall, people sometimes said he bore a similarity to the much shorter Vladimir Lenin—also of Kalmyk descent.
Lenin had died at fifty-three. Tretyakov was now fifty-two and had no plans to follow the great revolutionary leader and founder of the Soviet Union in an untimely demise. He had many more years of useful service to render to his country.
Throughout his career he’d been an adept recruiter and runner of spies, but he had made his true mark in the realm of subversion, sabotage, and special operations.
The son of an accomplished father who had taught applied mathematics at Moscow State University and a mother who had taught piano at the Moscow Conservatory, he had been a child prodigy. He was skilled in both mathematics and music, but had had no desire to follow either path.
