Spymaster

by Brad Thor

  “No.”

  “Were you able to open the trunk, or was the vehicle too badly damaged?”

  “We checked the trunk,” said Nyström. “What you see in front of you is everything he was carrying.”

  “I’d like to see his car now, please.”

  The Chief Inspector looked at his watch and then back at Harvath. “Let me make a call.”

  CHAPTER 23

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Lydia Ryan was in the middle of preparing an updated briefing for U.S. Ambassador to the U.N. Rebecca Strum, as well as running down all of Scot Harvath’s requests, when a call came in from Artur Kopec. He had an update for her. He claimed it was urgent and he needed to see her right away.

  It was two o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Whether his update was truly urgent or not, she figured it was probably no coincidence that it would take him out of the office for the rest of the day. Her suspicions were all but confirmed when he suggested that they meet at a particular D.C. watering hole. Though the traffic would be a pain in the ass, she told him she was leaving right then and would get there as soon as she could.

  Kopec wasn’t exactly subtle with his choice, but considering the cuisine and ambiance dovetailed with Poland’s, she supposed he could be forgiven. Even so, the Russia House Restaurant and Lounge near DuPont Circle at Connecticut and Florida avenues was a bit over the top.

  She parked at the Washington Hilton and went the rest of the way on foot—careful to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

  The Russia House Restaurant and Lounge was like escaping back in time to czarist Russia. It was decorated in rich mahoganies, ornate carpets, red silk draperies, and ornate gold brocade.

  The only thing that outdid the décor was the menu. It included every Russian staple imaginable—from borscht and wild boar to kulebiaka and shashlik.

  Not to be outdone in the food department, the Russia House boasted an astounding collection of vodka. It was not only one of the best in D.C., but it was one of the best in the United States.

  The vodka menu listed more than forty different kinds from Russia and twenty from Poland, and included vodkas from Moldova, Ukraine, Lithuania, Estonia, England, Sweden, Holland, and even Israel.

  On top of everything else, the Russia House was less than a mile and a half from the Polish Embassy.

  She found Kopec at a small table on the second floor, in the cozy, seductively lit “Czar’s Bar.”

  In his typical fashion, he had started without her. A bottle of Chopin potato vodka sat next to a silver serving dish filled with crushed ice and chilled caviar. It was encircled on a plate by small Russian pancakes known as blini. A colorful trio of minced red onion, chopped egg, and sour cream sat on a plate to the side.

  When Ryan entered, Kopec stood and watched her as she walked over. She looked stunning.

  Though he wasn’t an expert on designer labels, he assumed the suit she was wearing was Italian. If he had to guess, Armani. It was sleek and black and complemented her long, thin frame.

  Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her full lips accentuated by the peach lipstick she had chosen. He never got tired of looking at her. She was a vision.

  After giving her a quick kiss on each cheek, he pulled out her chair and assisted her in sitting down.

  “I hope the traffic wasn’t too awful,” he said as he retook his seat.

  “Friday in D.C.,” she replied, putting her napkin in her lap. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get here sooner.”

  “That’s quite all right. I hope you don’t mind. I started without you.”

  “It depends. What kind of caviar did you order?”

  Leaning forward so that no one could overhear him, he whispered, “Royal Osetra.”

  Two hundred bucks a tin. Ryan wondered how much of the money she had wired into Kopec’s account was funding this gourmet outing, but she kept her curiosity to herself. She hadn’t believed all of the money would go to tracking down the missing missile kits. A certain amount, undoubtedly, would wind up in Kopec’s pocket and be justified as “handling.”

  Figuring she, or rather The Carlton Group, had helped pay for it, Ryan availed herself of a large serving, but demurred when the Pole attempted to pour a shot of vodka for her. “I have to drive back to the office after this.”

  “Then just have one,” he said, using the bottle to gently brush her hand aside.

  Next to cash, alcohol was the lubricant that greased the wheels of the espionage world. Drinking was just part of how the great game was played, especially with older operatives. Retracting her hand, she allowed him to pour. Ryan could handle her liquor.

  “To Peaches,” he said, raising his glass.

  In addition to being a brilliant intelligence officer, Reed Carlton had also been known as a ruthless interrogator. It wasn’t something he relished, but it wasn’t something he shied away from either. When tough work needed to be done, his colleagues knew he could be counted upon. His most aggressive interrogating was reserved for the worst actors.

  Because of his ability to break the toughest, most evil of men—by any means necessary—Carlton had been given the amusing sobriquet Peaches. In time, it grew to be a term of endearment.

  “To Peaches,” Ryan replied, clinking her tiny glass against Kopec’s and throwing the vodka back in one shot.

  The Pole refilled his glass, but before he could do the same for hers, she slid it away and turned it upside down.

  “Na Zdrowie!” he cheered with a smile, To health, and then knocked his back.

  He was an amazing drinker. She could only imagine what his liver looked like. They probably could have used it for a doorstop back at the embassy, which got her to thinking.

  “Aren’t you concerned someone from work might see us here together?” she asked.

  “Concerned? I’m counting on it!” he replied. “Do you know what being seen with a beautiful woman like you would do for my standing in the diplomatic corps? In fact, I’m not allowing you to leave until someone does see us.”

  Ryan smiled politely. “Even you are not that careless, Artur.”

  “True. But being seen with the recent Deputy Director of the CIA, is a resume enhancer. The fact that she is also very attractive is a plus.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome,” he said. “And don’t be worried. No one at my embassy has the courage to leave before five o’clock—especially on a Friday. Most are career civil servants with the lingering fear of authority beaten into them during the Soviet days. Besides, it’s cheaper for them to stay at the office and drink. This way, when five o’clock rolls around and they’re ready to go out and party, they’re already drunk.”

  Ryan laughed. She had had lots of overseas postings, and drinking before going out, in order to save money, was the rule, not the exception.

  Knowing that Kopec would keep her here boozing with him as long as possible, perhaps indeed hoping they’d be spotted together, she decided to professionally move things along. “So, what is the urgent update you have for me?”

  She had caught him just as he was putting a blini loaded with caviar, red onion, and sour cream into his mouth.

  It took him a minute to chew it all and swallow. She was relieved to see him reach for his ice water, rather than another vodka, to wash it all down.

  Finally, the Polish intelligence officer spoke. “I think we may have found the upgrade kits for your illegal missiles.”

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  She didn’t like that Kopec had used the word “illegal,” nor did she like the way he had said it. He was setting her up for something; she could sense it, but she didn’t let on. “What did you find?” she asked.

  Taking out his phone, he opened a folder, and then slid the device across the table to her. “Feel free to scroll through.”

  Ryan did. There were multiple still photos, beginning with the CCTV footage of the theft. Though the thieves’ faces were no
t visible, their robbery was. The cameras had made it all possible. The van the thieves were driving, as well as its license plate, could be seen as clear as day.

  “This is terrific,” she remarked. “Were you able to trace the vehicle?”

  “It turns out that it was stolen, but keep going.”

  Ryan scrolled through the pictures of a barn that followed. Inside was the van. “Oh, my God, you found it.”

  He shook his head. “It had been abandoned. They hid it inside the barn, hoping to delay its discovery. Keep going.”

  Ryan did, and in the next series of photos saw a stack of empty U.S. Army crates that had been left behind.

  “I had my people go over everything—the van and the crates,” said Kopec. “They wiped everything down. They couldn’t find any clues.”

  “How did they find the barn in the first place?”

  “I had put a flag on the stolen vehicle. When a local reported finding it, my team was alerted and they stepped in.”

  Ryan lowered her voice. “Have you told anyone what was in those crates?”

  “No, but we had to pay the local police to forget they had ever been called to the barn.”

  “Money well spent,” she replied

  “Indeed,” said the Pole, nodding as he poured himself another shot.

  “So what do you think happened?” Ryan asked.

  “I think they had another vehicle waiting. I think they transferred the upgrade kits and took off.”

  “For where?”

  Kopec shook his head and raised his hands, palms up. “Who knows? It could be anywhere.”

  “Come on, Artur. You must have some idea.”

  “All I have are guesses.”

  “So guess,” she encouraged.

  “Belarus.”

  Ryan looked at him. “You think they left Poland?”

  “The spot where the van was discovered is near a known smuggling area. It’s not as bad as parts of your border with Mexico, but we have some of the same problems—drugs, sex trafficking, those kinds of things.”

  “Damn it,” she replied. “If those upgrade kits were taken into Belarus, they might as well have been taken into Russia.”

  “I agree. It’s not good. But it’s also not hopeless.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There may be something we can do,” said Kopec.

  “In Belarus?”

  The Pole nodded. “It won’t be cheap, though.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m going to need ten times the money.”

  Ryan didn’t bat an eye. “I’m still listening.”

  “And I’m going to need a piece of insurance.”

  “What kind of insurance?”

  As he had done when identifying his luxury caviar, Kopec leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You’re going to need to give me Matterhorn.”

  CHAPTER 25

  * * *

  Ryan quickly glanced around the lounge to make sure no one was listening to their conversation.

  She then focused back on Kopec and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The man laughed. “Which is why your entire body tensed at the mention of his name and you quickly looked around the room.”

  “Are you crazy? We can’t talk about this out in the open.”

  “We don’t have a choice. Not if you want to prevent those upgrade kits from finding their way to the Russians.”

  Ryan fixed him with an icy stare. “This is blackmail.”

  “This is business.”

  “You know what, Artur? I thought we had a better relationship than this.”

  “Our business is built on favors, Lydia. You are asking me for one and in return, I am asking one of you.”

  “Certainly. But Matterhorn? I can’t trade favors for that.”

  “You have asked me not to tell my government what I am doing for you. Further, I now need to send my people into Belarus and very carefully exploit my network there. And let me tell you, it will not be easy. If word gets out, the Russians will outbid, outmuscle, and outdestroy anyone who stands between them and proof that the United States has reintroduced cruise missiles into Europe in violation of the INF treaty. That alone could kick off World War III. But couple it with the fact that an untold number of your missiles are nuclear-tipped? That could very well be game over.”

  “Pick something else, Artur. Anything else. You’ve said this will cost one hundred grand. Make it five hundred. We won’t care where the money goes. Do with it as you see fit.”

  The Polish intelligence officer shook his head as he loaded another blini. “You can’t put a price on an asset like Matterhorn, especially for Poland.”

  “I understand,” replied Ryan. “But Matterhorn is not mine to give.”

  Popping the blini into his mouth, he let her words hang in the air above the table, as he took his time chewing and then swallowing.

  “There has to be another arrangement we can come to,” she said, breaking the number one rule about not rushing to fill uncomfortable silences.

  “The missiles are your insurance policy against the Russians,” Kopec insisted. “Matterhorn will be ours.”

  Ryan began to argue, but the Pole held up his hand. “Think about what you are asking me to do. Matterhorn is one asset, Lydia. That’s all, but he could be the difference between life and death for Poland.”

  “I can’t bargain with you over Matterhorn because we don’t know who the hell Matterhorn is.”

  Kopec, who was normally quite good at playing his cards close to his vest, appeared genuinely startled. “That’s impossible.”

  “Well, welcome to my new world,” she said, as she decided that she wouldn’t go straight back to the office. Turning her glass over, she pushed it forward.

  Slowly, he poured a vodka for her, but perhaps thinking better of it, chose not to pour one for himself and set the bottle back down on the table. “Walk me through this,” he said.

  Tossing back the shot, Ryan took another look around the room and then leaned forward. “As you know, Matterhorn was recruited and run by Carlton.”

  Kopec nodded. “That’s how he explained it.”

  “Only a handful of people were ever aware of his existence,” she continued. “The Russians thought Matterhorn was spying for them, and he was. But in addition to legitimate intelligence, he was also feeding them a lot of misinformation as well, specifically about NATO.”

  “Which is precisely why we want him. To keep the Russians off balance.”

  “I understand, but there’s one problem. Carlton never revealed his identity.”

  “What?”

  “Never. Not to anyone. It was one of his most closely guarded secrets.”

  “Then we need to go talk to him.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve tried. Over and over again. That part of his mind isn’t coming back. It’s a secret he’ll take to his grave. Unless . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Unless what?” Kopec asked.

  “Unless we can piece the identity together through his personal papers. He kept journals, much of the material coded. We’ve made a little progress, but a lot of it is slow going. We have to cross-reference where he said he was and what he was doing with classified accounts in the CIA archives. It’s like trying to put together a puzzle in the dark.”

  Tapping the top of her tiny glass, she gestured for him to refill it. Once he had, she sipped it and began to spill her guts. “You have no idea how frustrating all of this has been. If I had known what I was walking into, I don’t know if I ever would have agreed to take this job.

  “Every time I turn around, there’s another hole in the dike that needs plugging, but only Reed Carlton’s fingers fit and he can’t remember where to put them. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Kopec didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t be sure if it was the alcohol talking, or if Ryan was simply unburdening herself to a trusted colleague. Either way, what she
was revealing about the disarray in her organization was quite troublesome.

  He listened intently and slowly began to steer their conversation back to Matterhorn. “Realistically, how soon do you think you might have the identity?”

  She stopped, mid-sip in her vodka, and pondered his question. “It could be a day, a week, or a month. Who knows? There’s also the problem that, even if we could come to some sort of an agreement about Matterhorn, Carlton is unable to introduce a new handler and orchestrate a handoff.”

  As far as Kopec was concerned, that was the least of their worries. Just knowing whom the asset was would be a huge step forward. “Let me ask you something,” he said, shifting gears. “Do you know why Carlton selected the codename Matterhorn? Was it significant somehow? Connected?”

  Finishing the shot, she returned the glass to the table and shook her head. “When it comes to Reed Carlton, I don’t have the slightest clue. I can’t even begin to think the way that he does—even on his worst day. He was always ten steps ahead of everybody.”

  “That he was,” agreed the Pole as he started to pour her another drink.

  Ryan, though, politely waved him off and turned over her glass.

  “I’ve already had too much. I apologize.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’ve got a lot on your plate,” he said.

  Looking down, she realized that she hadn’t even touched her caviar. Assembling a blini, she directed their conversation back to the upgrade kits. “If I gave you my word that you can have Matterhorn—if and when I identify him—would you be willing to push into Belarus for me?”

  “For you? Or for the United States?”

  “For me,” she replied.

  Kopec thought about her offer for several moments. Looking at her, he finally said, “For you and for five hundred thousand dollars, I’d be willing to take the risk of pushing into Belarus. But understand something, Lydia. I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret that trust. That would be a very foolish thing to do. Believe me.”

  CHAPTER 26