Spymaster

by Brad Thor

  He had only made it a quarter of the way when he saw a marked police car coming down the cobbled street, and he ducked into an archway.

  The vehicle was moving slowly, almost purposefully. He couldn’t tell if the cop was looking for something specific, or if he was just making his rounds. Receding further into the darkness, Harvath pressed himself up flat against the wall.

  As the car neared, Harvath recognized the officer. He was one of the two uniformed cops who had met the plane last night—the taller one. Harvath paused for a moment, trying to recall the man’s name. Then it came to him—Johansson.

  Visby was a small town. Maybe Johansson was just on patrol and they had ended up in the same place at the same time. That wouldn’t have been so unusual. Harvath was tempted to write it off as a coincidence.

  By the same token, he had made it a rule not to believe in coincidences. That rule had saved his life more times than he could remember.

  Once the officer had rolled past, Harvath looked out from the archway and then stepped back onto the street. He had a bad feeling about it and decided to take Johansson’s presence as an ominous sign.

  CHAPTER 38

  * * *

  MINSK, BELARUS

  The only person Artur Kopec could trust with more than one hundred thousand dollars in cash was Tomasz Wójcik.

  Wójcik had made a fortune in bribes and kickbacks while head of Poland’s Central Anticorruption Bureau, or CBA. If not for Kopec, he probably would have gotten away with it. Wójcik was absolutely amazing when it came to offshore banking and laundering money.

  What had tripped him up was a singular piece of misfortune. He had employed someone who was already an intelligence asset on Kopec’s payroll. When the asset informed Kopec of who Wójcik was and what he wanted, Kopec encouraged him to take the illicit job and further the relationship. Once Wójcik had fully implicated himself, Kopec had sprung.

  He had given the corrupt official two choices—he could be prosecuted and go to jail, or he could come to work for Kopec. The man had chosen wisely. He had gone to work for Kopec.

  It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Considering the side jobs Kopec took from time to time, like the one he was on for the Americans right now, a man like Wójcik was good to have on the payroll.

  Now, a leather Gurkha messenger bag slung from his shoulder, Wójcik made his way through Gorky Park—the oldest park in the city—named after the Soviet-era writer known as Maxim Gorky.

  Wójcik’s psoriasis was flaring up. Even though he had slathered his body with ointment before leaving the hotel, the flaky patches of red skin had returned. They were inflamed and itched terribly.

  Though it was the stress, he blamed the weather. He hated it in Europe. He would have much preferred retiring to the Caribbean, or maybe the Florida Keys, but Kopec had forbidden it. Vacations? No problem. Permanent residency outside Poland? No way.

  The Polish intelligence officer lorded his power over him. Wójcik’s life was not his own—at least not to the degree any free person would have desired. Though he lived comfortably in Warsaw, he lived as an indentured servant. Kopec could pull his passport at any time. Even more troublesome, he could turn him over to the authorities.

  Wójcik tried to keep that in mind and to find the bright side. His wife of forty-seven years had died the winter before. He had been by her side when she passed, rather than rotting away in a Polish prison cell. He saw his children and grandchildren on a regular basis. He came and went, within reason, as he pleased. It was a prison of sorts, but it could have been much worse.

  He thought about that as he strolled through the park toward the planetarium on the other side of the fifty-six-meter-high Ferris wheel.

  It was a Saturday night and the park was quite lively—packed with families and lots of young people. He could hear music and laughter all around.

  Kopec had sent him as a courier, his leather bag filled with American currency. He was to meet with his counterpart from Belarus, Pavel Kushner.

  Kushner had been chairperson of the Central Department for Combatting Organized Crime and Corruption at the Belarusian Ministry of Internal Affairs.

  The pair had met, quite by accident, via a shared private banker in Switzerland. Certain financial synergies quickly became apparent. Within months, they had discovered a very profitable way to exploit the border between Poland and Belarus.

  That exploitation was why Wójcik had been sent to see his old friend and business partner.

  At the third bench before the observatory, Wójcik took a seat and unslung the messenger bag.

  Setting it next to him, he slid his hand beneath his coat and scratched at the painfully dry skin of his upper left arm and shoulder.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t bring him much relief and might have only made it worse.

  Fishing a flask from his interior coat pocket, he looked around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, unscrewed the cap, and took a long pull of a spiced Polish liqueur known as kardamonka.

  Down the esplanade, he could see Kushner, slightly bent, and in his trademark black trench coat, walking in his direction. Wójcik returned the flask to its hiding place and stood to greet him.

  The two men embraced each other and then sat down.

  “I’m sorry to take you away from your weekend,” said Wójcik. “Thank you for coming back into town to see me.”

  “Our dacha is only an hour away,” replied Kushner. “Besides, you said it was important. And worth my while.”

  Wójcik nodded at the Gurkha. “The money and the photos are inside.”

  Unzipping the briefcase, Kushner looked inside. “I don’t know much about missile technology,” he said. “But if your missing upgrade kits came into Belarus, there’s only a handful of people who can move them. I know someone I can ask.”

  “How long do you think it will take?”

  “Give me a couple of days. Where are you staying?”

  “The Crowne Plaza.”

  Kushner shrugged. “A little too brightly lit for me. But it’s okay, I suppose. Would you like for me to arrange a girl for you?”

  “No,” said Wójcik. “That isn’t necessary.”

  “Of course it is necessary. You’re still a man, aren’t you?”

  “I am an old man.”

  “So am I, but it doesn’t stop me. There is an oyster bar not far from the hotel. I can get you a table. It will help you put some lead in your pencil. Or I have the blue pills if you need them. Wiagra,” the Belarusian said, mispronouncing the name.

  “Viagra,” his friend corrected.

  “That’s what I said.”

  Wójcik smiled. “No girls. No oysters. No Viagra. Thank you.”

  “In other words, no fun.”

  All the Pole wanted to do was get back to his room and reapply his lotion, but that kind of personal information wasn’t something he felt prepared to share. Rising from the bench, he left the Gurkha and said, “It was good seeing you again. I am sorry for interrupting your weekend.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to reconnect with an old friend,” Kushner replied. “If you change your mind about anything, no matter what you need, call me.”

  “I will,” said Wójcik. “Thank you. And please remember, this is a rush job.”

  “Of course,” said the Belarusian. “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

  Smiling, the Pole shook his friend’s hand and, turning, walked out of the park.

  As he made his way back to the hotel, he never even noticed that he was being followed.

  CHAPTER 39

  * * *

  GOTLAND

  Sloane lingered at the hostess stand long enough for everyone inside to get a good eyeful. If Harvath had had any doubts about her talents, seeing the very discreet yet seductive way she handled herself would have put all of them to rest.

  After acting like a chatty American, and having explained how she was working in Stockholm and had come over on the ferry for a fun weekend on Gotland, sh
e was shown to a table by the hostess. She promised to be on the lookout for Sloane’s “friend” and would bring her over as soon as she arrived.

  A few minutes later, a waitress arrived to take her order. O’Learys specialized in American-style bar food—things like burgers, wings, nachos, and Jalapeño poppers.

  She and the team had been on the road for over a month. A taste of home, even though she was on the job, would be a real treat.

  After ordering a Red Bull and a plate of wings, she settled back in her chair and took a look around.

  Sparrman and his crew had all seen her come in. She had seen them, too, though she hadn’t let them know it. Even now, their eyes were still all over her. Pulling out her phone, she texted Chase to see how much longer they would be. Haney hadn’t gotten there yet. Based on his estimate, they were at least ten minutes away.

  Starting a new text, she gave Harvath a SITREP from inside to let him know how things were going. Glancing up at Sparrman and the Russians, she saw that their attention had shifted to one of the TVs, where a new soccer match was about to begin. The matchup appeared to be between Russia and the Czech Republic.

  Apparently, they were big fans of the sport, which she hoped would work to her advantage. If the game went well and they were enjoying themselves, it might provide her with the perfect opportunity.

  She knew plenty of women who would have said no to an operation like this. They would have been offended even at the thought of being used as “bait.” Sloane, though, didn’t have a problem with it. She wasn’t being asked to be part of a honey trap. Harvath had never asked her to do something like that, nor would he ever. He knew, without even asking, what her answer would be.

  He also knew why she was so determined to do this kind of work. Despite her parents’ willingness, and ability, Sloane had paid her own way through college via the ROTC program. She had attended Northwestern University, where she studied math and chemistry.

  She had grown up in an affluent household and had been a competitive figure skater through high school. Once she got to college, she had switched over to snowboarding, where she became not only more competitive, but happier. Where she hadn’t been happy, though, was after college when she entered the Army.

  The only reason she had agreed to sign up was that she was promised combat. She didn’t believe in taking money for school and not paying it back as fully as she could.

  She did two tours in Afghanistan, during which she killed more enemy combatants than all of the other female soldiers combined. When word of her prowess leaked, a popular women’s magazine back in the States did an unauthorized profile of her. As soon as Al Qaeda and the Taliban discovered it, they placed a bounty on her head and the Pentagon pulled her from combat.

  She ended up working with the all-female Delta Force unit known as the Athena Project, but as a trainer, not an operative. While she was proud to be part of such a prestigious program, it continually pissed her off to see those women being sent out on assignments, as she remained behind at Fort Bragg.

  When Reed Carlton had offered her the opportunity to join his company and do all of the things she longed to do, she had jumped at the chance. In hiring her, he was putting into effect the same modus operandi Athena was—take highly intelligent, highly accomplished, highly attractive female athletes, give them the same training as the men, and set them loose in the field.

  Women like Sloane were so successful not only because they were good at what they did, but also because their beauty negated them as a threat. The simple fact was that when most men saw a good-looking woman, the blood flow to their brains got diverted to south of their belt buckles.

  Her looks were an asset and she had no problem leveraging them. She could only do that, though, because she knew Carlton and Harvath valued her for everything else she brought to the party.

  The waitress returned with her Red Bull, and while Sloane waited for her appetizer, she scrolled through a series of news feeds on her phone. As part of operational security, the team wasn’t allowed to check their social media accounts while they were on assignments.

  It was smart policy, which was Harvath in a nutshell. He was constantly hammering home the importance of good tradecraft.

  She also knew that good tradecraft could be the difference between life and death. Having been a hitter for so long, Harvath had plenty of those lessons to share.

  He knew his stuff. More important, he wasn’t half bad at teaching others. He had helped her to become an even better operator. And for that, she was grateful.

  Looking up, she saw the waitress arriving with her wings. She was almost done with them when Jasinski arrived.

  “Nice boots,” said Sloane, as the hostess showed Jasinski to the table. They were black and came up almost thigh-high. Her dress was incredibly form-fitting and left nothing at all to the imagination.

  “I think Harvath enjoyed picking out our outfits,” Jasinski replied.

  “No question. You look great, though.”

  “Thank you. You, too. What are you drinking?”

  Sloane held up her glass. “Red Bull.”

  “I’ll have one as well, please,” she said to the waitress, who had just arrived at the table. “How are the nachos?”

  “Excellent.”

  “And some nachos, then, please.”

  When the waitress had walked away, Jasinski looked over at the bar and said, “So that’s them?”

  Sloane nodded.

  The Russians were a rough-looking bunch. They stood out like sore thumbs. Sparrman, even with his red hair, resembled every other local in the place.

  Alpha dogs had a way of recognizing other alpha dogs, and Harvath had worried that if any of his male team members locked eyes with any of the Spetsnaz soldiers, they would have known something was up and that would have been the end of it. Harvath wanted to maintain the element of surprise for as long as he could. That was why Sloane and Jasinski had been sent in on their own.

  Returning her attention to the table, Jasinski said, “This is your show. I’m here to back you up, but only if you need me. We can get started whenever you’re ready.”

  “We’ve already started,” Sloane replied, as she glanced over and caught Sparrman looking at her. “And I will need you, but let’s wait for your food first. Then we can kick this thing into gear.”

  Jasinski admired the woman’s cool and her confidence. She seemed not only ready, but also eager for what was about to happen.

  CHAPTER 40

  * * *

  Sloane knew exactly what she was doing. Dressed in the clothing Harvath had bought her, she was already fishing with dynamite, but clothing was only part of a successful seduction. It was a dance, a series of almost imperceptible cues—of motions, glances, and expressions.

  She did her best to ignore Sparrman, only allowing him to catch her looking at him when she wanted to be caught. That was part of the game as well.

  She spent most of her time focused on Jasinski, who acted as her eyes, telling her what was going on at the bar and if her target was looking at them.

  Jasinski knew the game and was an exceptional wingman. She knew how to dial her energy up, smile, and laugh. They were competing with the soccer match. It was important that they be more fun, and more enticing. Soon enough, they had their answer.

  Sparrman left the bar, walked over to their table, and asked the two ladies where they were from.

  Harvath had already worked out the cover story with both of them. They gave the Swede the short version, after which he asked if he could sit down at their table and buy them both a drink. Jasinski said yes, even though it was obvious that he was speaking to Sloane.

  Sparrman took a seat and called the waitress over. He ordered another beer for himself and asked the ladies what they wanted. They ordered Amstel Lights. There was no telling how long they would be drinking. The lower the alcohol content of what they were consuming, the better.

  Sloane elaborated on their cover story, going into mor
e detail about where they were from, and what they were doing in Sweden.

  When she asked Sparrman what he did for a living, he told her he owned one of the biggest ranches on the island. She said she didn’t believe him and asked to see his hands. When he showed her, she lightly traced the lines and calluses with one of her fingers. If the man wasn’t hot already, his temperature was definitely beginning to climb. And, she had learned something about him, something he hadn’t said.

  They finished their beers and Sparrman bought another round. They continued to laugh and make small talk.

  When the third round came, Jasinski excused herself to use the ladies’ room. While there, she texted Harvath a SITREP. Everything was going well, but Sparrman seemed content to just sit with a pretty woman, drink beer, and glance up at the TV whenever he heard his colleagues at the bar cheer or let out a collective groan.

  Harvath texted back that Jasinski needed to get Sloane to dial up the heat. Jasinski refused, telling him that Sloane was doing a great job and that he would just need to be patient.

  After leaving the ladies’ room, she stopped by the bar to break a large bill so she could have money for the jukebox. One of the Russians was ogling her and so she asked him, in English, if there were any songs he wanted to hear.

  The question seemed to have taken him by surprise. She could almost hear the gears grinding away in his head. The man’s response finally came in a thick, unquestionably Russian accent. “Bruce Springsteen,” he said.

  “The Boss,” Jasinski replied, with a smile.

  “Yes. The Boss.”

  “I’ll see if they have him,” she said, as she accepted her change from the barman. Noticing the ink on the man’s arm, she added, “Nice tattoo,” before leaving the bar and walking over to the jukebox.

  Springsteen, she thought to herself as she walked. Interesting choice, especially for a Russian, but that was the power of American culture.