by Brad Thor
The Russian attempted to take a deep drag, but the pain from his shoulder caused him to cough. The coughing only increased his pain.
Once it had passed, he tried again—this time taking a much more shallow pull.
“Mostly, I taught myself English. I like to read. I also took some classes while I was in the Russian Army and then in my following position.”
“With the GRU.”
“Yes,” said Kuznetsov.
“What can you tell me about your position with the GRU?”
“I am an intelligence officer.”
“Where were you assigned before Gotland?” asked Harvath.
The man took another drag before replying. “Let me see,” he said, compiling a list in his head. “Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Poland, Belarus. Many places.”
Three of the countries jibed with what Sergun had told Vella. That was a good start.
“And what was your job when you were in those countries?”
“My job was to do whatever they asked me to do.”
“For the most part, what was it that they asked you to do?”
“I recruited spies and built espionage networks.”
The Russian took another puff on his cigarette and then indicated by nodding his head that he wanted it removed from his mouth.
Reaching out, Harvath took it and set it on the edge of the table.
“Is there anything to drink?” Kuznetsov asked. “Perhaps you have some more coffee?”
“You may have some water, but first you need to answer some more questions for me.”
“I am in much pain. Can you give me something for it?”
“Yes, I can,” said Harvath, “but not yet.”
“What are the questions you want to ask me?”
“Who is your superior?”
“Colonel Oleg Tretyakov,” the Russian replied.
Harvath took a sip of his coffee, but kept his eyes locked on Kuznetsov’s face. By all indications, he was absolutely telling the truth.
“And Tretyakov is the one who sent you to Gotland?”
“Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
“To recruit spies and build an espionage network,” the Russian replied.
“And what was the ultimate goal of this network?”
“To assist the Russian military in a potential overtaking.”
“Overtaking?” asked Harvath.
“Invasion,” said Kuznetsov, clarifying what he meant.
Nodding his head toward the cigarette, he indicated his desire for another puff. Harvath picked it up and allowed the man to take one, and then returned it to the edge of the table. He wanted a clear, unobscured view of his face for his next question.
“Are you familiar with the anti-NATO attacks that have happened in multiple European countries?”
The Russian nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“First I would like some water. Please.”
Standing, Harvath reached behind the nearest sheet and Vella handed him a small bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he walked over to Kuznetsov, placed the bottle against his mouth, and tilted it back so he could drink. The man drank the entire thing.
Harvath set the empty bottle on the table and sat back down.
“Several hours ago, they let me piss. There was blood in it. I need to be taken to a hospital.”
“Tell me what you know about the attacks,” Harvath demanded.
“No,” said the Russian. “First we make our deal. Then we talk about everything else I know.”
“What is it that you want?”
“I want my family out of Russia,” the man said.
“How many are in your family?”
“Nine.”
“Nine?”
“Nine,” Kuznetsov repeated.
Standing again, Harvath walked over, parted the sheets, and requested a pad and pen from Vella.
When he sat back down, he said, “Give me their names, ages, and relationship to you.”
The Russian operative had a wife and four children. He listed their names and ages. The other four family members were his parents and his wife’s mother and father.
Harvath held up his hand. “I can only negotiate in regard to your immediate family.”
“Our parents must leave Russia as well. I cannot allow them to be punished for what I have done.”
Harvath tapped his pen against the pad of paper for several moments as he pretended to think about it. “I will see what I can do, but it will depend on how helpful you are to me. With each minute that passes, the information you have becomes less valuable, and my people will be less willing to make a deal.”
Kuznetsov smiled. “Really? I think it is just the opposite. With every minute that passes, my information is more valuable and your people should be more eager to make a deal. Time is a very precious commodity.”
“Like I said. I will see what I can do. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime,” the Russian interrupted, “I would like something for this pain. And while I am waiting for that, you can contact your people to confirm that you will be getting my entire family out of Russia.”
“Nine people,” said Harvath. “That’s not going to be easy.”
“I’m sure the all-powerful American government can find a way.”
“I will ask, though I cannot promise where you all will be relocated to.”
“Italy,” said Kuznetsov. “That’s where we want to be placed. Florence.”
Harvath was tempted to ask him why Italy and why Florence, but the truth was that he didn’t really care. It also wasn’t up to him.
“I cannot speak for the Italian government, but I can put in a request to my government to speak with the Italians on your behalf. That is, of course, if what you have to tell me is worth all of the trouble and all the expense of doing all of this.”
Kuznetsov smiled. “It will be. Trust me.”
Harvath smiled back. “What’s the old Russian saying? Trust but verify. You’re going to have to give me something I can give my people to convince them.”
The Russian paused, considering how much to reveal in order to secure this deal for himself and his family. Finally, he looked at him and said, “The man you are looking for is Colonel Oleg Tretyakov. Chief of GRU Covert Operations for Eastern Europe.”
“What about him?” asked Harvath.
“He’s behind it.”
“Behind what?”
Kuznetsov smiled once more. “All of it.”
Harvath picked up his pen. Flipping to a clean sheet of paper, he said, “Ivan, listen very carefully. This is your one and only chance to save your family. I’m going to need much more than just a name. Make this worth it. Give me everything you have.”
CHAPTER 58
* * *
“I can see everyone,” said President Paul Porter over a secure link from the White House situation room. “Are we all on?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” replied Lydia Ryan, from a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, also known as a SCIF, at The Carlton Group.
“I’m here,” said CIA Director Bob McGee from his secure conference room at Langley.
“I’m here as well, Mr. President,” said Harvath over his encrypted connection back at the compound guesthouse in Brussels.
“Okay, let’s cut right to the chase,” stated Porter. “I reached out to the Italian Prime Minister. He’s willing to accept the family in question, but on two conditions. The first is that the Italians do not have to subsidize them. They will grant conditional citizenship for twenty-four months. Basically, as long as they keep their noses clean, they can stay.
“The second condition is that whatever intel the head of household provides, it absolutely has to have a link to outing the perpetrators of the Rome attack. How are we on both of those conditions?”
“Mr. President,” replied McGee, “as per financial support for the family in question, there is absolute
ly money in the budget for that. In fact, it would be our desire to make the funding contingent upon his continued cooperation. We would expect him to provide everything—every operation he has ever worked on, every contact he has ever had, every asset, every means of communication, names in the GRU, any military intelligence he may have, etcetera.”
“Understood,” said Porter. “What about the second condition?”
“Scot, do you want to take this one?” asked Ryan.
“Sure,” he replied. “Mr. President. From what the subject has told me, there is an absolutely straight-line connection to what happened in Rome. If we can get to the next rung on the ladder, we’ve got the Holy Grail. He has all of the names, dates, places—all of it. We’ll not only be able to tell the Italians we got one of the ultimate players, but we should also be in a position to furnish the identities of their own nationals who were involved.”
“And if we can deliver this intelligence to the Italians, then the same person in question should be able to tell us who was responsible in-country for all the other attacks, so that we can provide our other allies with that information as well.”
“That is correct. Yes, sir. But with one caveat.”
“What’s that?” asked Porter.
“Any response needs to be coordinated,” stated Ryan. “For instance, we can’t have the Italians launching their own campaign while the Norwegians carry out their own, separate reprisal. An attack on one member is an attack on all. The response from the alliance should demonstrate absolute unity.”
“This is also,” added McGee, “an opportunity to repair some of the rifts in the alliance. The bombings in Istanbul have killed nearly three hundred people so far. The Turks should be granted a lead role in planning and executing any response.”
“Agreed,” said the President. “I have been watching the footage. It is beyond horrific. They’re calling it Turkey’s 9/11. I’ve already called the President to express America’s condolences.”
“Absolutely the right thing to do,” stated Ryan, “but sir, if I may?
“Go ahead.”
“As someone who has operated in Turkey, and continues to pay attention to their politics, we need to make sure that even though the PRF has claimed credit, the Turkish President doesn’t somehow use this as an excuse for more political purges.”
“I completely concur,” Porter replied. “Right now, the Turks are the ones I’m most worried about. Things have gotten to the point, I’m afraid, where no matter what we say, if the Russians contradict it, they’ll take Moscow’s side. We are going to need absolutely watertight, overwhelming evidence to convince them of who was responsible.”
“And we will get it,” replied Harvath, “All we need to do is isolate that next rung on the ladder. That’s where it will be.”
“Understood. So what’s left? What do you need from me?”
“For the moment, sir,” said Ryan, “nothing. Director McGee will work on an extraction plan for the subject’s family, while we work on identifying the next rung, as Scot put it, and how to go after it.”
“And what’s our exposure on Sweden? Am I going to be getting an angry call at some point here from the Prime Minister?”
“I’ve already reached out to their intelligence director and have taken the hit,” McGee responded. “Gunnar wasn’t happy, in fact he was very upset that we didn’t give him a heads-up. Lars Lund is not going to be easy for them to replace. The police inspector in Visby hospital, though, will recover. On balance, I think the relationship will be okay—especially now that we can confirm who was behind the Gotland cell and what their mission was.”
“Keep monitoring it,” instructed Porter. “They’re an important partner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No, sir,” McGee replied.
“All right, then,” the President declared. “Let me end by stating something I know we all agree on, but that I want to make crystal clear. I don’t want to see another scene like Rome or Istanbul. Full stop. Is that understood?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, Mr. President” before the videoconference was closed. And while Ryan and McGee, by virtue of being back in the States, might have to bear the burden of dealing with Porter face to face, the real weight of his words, and his expectations, fell upon Harvath’s shoulders.
With that knowledge fully in mind, he exited the guesthouse and headed back over to the basement of the main building.
He had lived up to his end of the bargain. It was time for Ivan Kuznetsov to do the same.
And if he didn’t, Harvath intended to make clear that even God himself wouldn’t be able to protect the Russian, or any of the members of his nine-person family.
CHAPTER 59
* * *
MINSK, BELARUS
Tomasz Wójcik was sitting in the Crowne Plaza’s trendy Empire Restaurant, enjoying the view over the city, when Pavel Kushner arrived. He was carrying a large, black leather briefcase, similar to what pilots carried.
“You should have started without me,” said Kushner as he sat down.
“I did,” Wójcik replied. “You’re late. I finished eating a half hour ago.”
The Belarusian smiled. His friend had gotten curmudgeonly in his old age. He probably wasn’t having enough sex. He should have taken him up on his offer to arrange a girl for him. A young lady of lower social responsibility would have helped reinvigorate his manhood.
“Did you have the buffet?” asked Kushner. “Or did you order off the menu?”
“I had a hard-boiled egg, toast, and coffee,” the Pole replied matter-of-factly.
“You know what?” his friend replied, eyeing the nearby buffet. “I really think retirement agrees with you. You were much more uptight in the old days.”
Wójcik wasn’t in the mood. Both of the nights that he had been in the hotel, he had slept like crap. The first night that was because his room had been right next to the elevators, which had chimed all night long. And the second night, after they had moved him, there’d been a bunch of drunks stumbling up and down his floor. He couldn’t wait to get out of Minsk and back to Poland.
“So what do you have for me?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” said Kushner. “First, I need to get some breakfast. I’m starving.”
The Pole almost couldn’t believe it. His friend had arrived almost an hour late, and now wanted him to wait while he hit the buffet.
“By all means,” Wójcik replied. “Take your time.”
His facetiousness was completely lost on the man.
Watching as he quickly walked over to the buffet, he had to wonder if Pavel was actually hungry, or if he was just eager to chat up the very large-breasted woman picking up berries, one at a time, with a pair of tongs and daintily placing them on a small white plate.
Signaling the waitress, the Pole politely requested more coffee. He looked at his watch and tried to figure out how long it would take to get home if he was able to leave in the next half hour. Depending on traffic, it was a seven- to eight-hour drive. Kopec had forbidden him to fly. Customs at the Minsk airport was much tougher than at the vehicle border crossing.
Since their meeting Saturday night in Gorky Park, his psoriasis had only gotten worse. No matter how much ointment he applied, it wasn’t getting any better. In fact, it had spread. He really needed to decrease his stress.
Pulling out his phone, he searched for the nearest drugstore. He would pick up some petroleum jelly and slather his affected skin before leaving. He hoped that would provide enough relief for him to withstand the uncomfortable drive home.
“Did you see that woman in the knit dress?” Kushner asked as he sat down, his plate piled high with eggs, pancakes, and bacon.
“How could anyone miss her?”
“She’s from Babruysk. You know what they say about women from Babruysk.”
“Actually, in Warsaw we don’t talk about women from Babruysk that often. I
n fact, it’s probably closer to never. Can we get on with our business, please?”
“My dear, dear Tomasz,” Kushner replied. “What good is all the money we made, and all the risks we took, if we cannot enjoy ourselves?”
“Pavel, we have known each other for many years, so I hope you’ll appreciate my being comfortable enough with you to be frank. Knock off the bullshit. Do you have something for me, or not?”
“What I have is a prediction for you. Within a year, unless you loosen up, you will be in a retirement home.”
The Pole shook his head. “Of all the meetings I have ever had, this is the one I should have brought a gun to. You’d better have more than just a prediction in that briefcase, old friend.”
Kushner smiled. “Would I disappoint you, old friend?” he asked, opening the case to show him what was inside.
Wójcik removed the file folder from his own briefcase and compared the pictures Kopec had given him to what he was now looking at. It was a perfect match. Kushner appeared to have secured the components from one of the upgrade kits.
“Where did you get that?”
The Belarusian shrugged. “It wasn’t difficult. I told you. There are only a few people in Belarus who could handle something like this.”
“Where are the rest of the kits?”
“They’re safe.”
“I paid you one hundred thousand dollars to locate them,” said the Pole.
“Which I did,” Kushner replied. “I even brought one here to prove it to you. If you have a buyer interested in the entire lot, I’d be happy to let my source know.”
Wójcik looked at him. “So now you’re the broker on this deal?”
“As far as you’re concerned, yes.”
“Who has the upgrade kits?”
“My dear Tomasz, it would be highly unethical of me to divulge that information,” said the Belarusian.
Wójcik felt a wave of nausea coming over him. Kopec was going to be extremely angry at this development.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to remain calm. “How about this? Let’s go downstairs to my room. I’ll take a few photographs of the merchandise, contact my client, and we’ll take things from there.”
