by Brad Thor
“We’re one hundred percent confident that he provided the information,” Nicholas replied. “Whether he knew what was going to happen after providing the information is still being looked into.”
Porter glanced at his FBI Director. “Where is he now?”
Militante, who had no idea, shrugged. The President then turned to McGee, who gave a quick shake of his head as if to say, You don’t want to know.
It was Nicholas who stepped back in and ended the line of questioning. “Let’s just say we have eyes on him and he’s not going anywhere.”
Before the President could ask another question on the subject, Rogers advanced to a new series of photos and picked back up with his briefing.
“So the team kills everyone in the house but Harvath. One of them, who may have been wearing Harvath’s watch, gets in Harvath’s rental car, drives to the end of the driveway, and throws Harvath’s cell phone out the window, then drives off.
“Based on other cameras we were able to collect footage from, the rental car crosses the bridge from Governors Island to the mainland, makes a beeline for the interstate, and heads north on I-93. It was later abandoned near Franconia Notch State Park, about seventy-nine miles south of the Pittsburg-Chartierville Border Crossing. Which brings us to the secondary vehicle, the one we believe the hit team used.”
The SPEHA brought up a new series of pictures and videos and continued speaking. “Kopec flew commercial from Reagan National to Portland, Maine, which is about ninety miles away from Governors Island.
“He was met at the Portland airport by a car service with instructions to bring him to the cottage on Governors Island. FBI has interviewed the driver, but he wasn’t much help. He says the passenger was pleasant enough, but that’s about all he remembers. They drove in silence most of the way there and back. The passenger made a few phone calls in a foreign language, which the driver couldn’t place. He thought it sounded Eastern European.”
“What about the second vehicle?” Nicholas asked.
“Panel van, rented at the Portland airport the day before,” said Rogers, as he picked back up with a video feed from the counter. It showed a tall, muscular man in his late thirties. “He presented a credit card, proof of insurance, even an American driver’s license—all of which, we know now, were fakes. Highly sophisticated, backstopped fakes, but fakes nonetheless.
“The next day, this panel van can be seen on multiple cameras. It begins by following the Town Car from Portland airport all the way to Governors Island. When the Town Car turns into the safe house driveway, moments later you can see the van drive past and keep going. Unfortunately, wherever it came to a stop and parked, none of the other homes there have cameras.
“Then, several hours later, as Harvath’s rental car is seen leaving the island and heading north, the panel van is about ten minutes behind it. U.S. Customs and Border Patrol found it abandoned the next day, less than a mile from the border.
“At that point, the trail went completely cold. Even the Canadians were unable to generate any leads. Then they got a hit on the car rental counter footage we sent them. Two days ago, a private jet left Montréal-Trudeau International. Someone at the Canadian Security Intelligence Service decided to go back, sweep FBO security footage, and run it through facial recognition. Our car renter popped up, along with four other men. At that point, they were traveling on Finnish passports with several large pieces of luggage, a couple of which could have been used to smuggle Harvath on board. They had—”
“But no one saw Harvath,” interrupted the President.
“No, sir,” replied Rogers.
“Okay, continue.”
“The jet’s crew had filed a flight plan for Ivalo, the northernmost city in Finland. Considering the number of people on board, plus the fuel capacity, it was at right about the outer range of the aircraft. According to the Finnish government, the plane was forty-five minutes from its destination when the pilot radioed in a change. They claimed they were going to St. Petersburg, Russia, instead—but that’s not where they went.”
“Where’d they go?”
“A bored Finnish air defense officer continued tracking the aircraft. It ended up landing in Murmansk.”
“What’s in Murmansk?” the FBI Director asked.
“Lots of polar bears and terrible food,” Nicholas replied.
“Do we have any satellite imagery?” asked President Porter. “Any visuals on who got off that plane?”
“No, we didn’t have anything on station,” Rogers answered. “Even if we had, a severe weather system was beginning to build, and it would have been difficult to get definitive imagery.”
“So that’s it?”
“Not exactly. After we received the FBO footage from Canadian Intelligence, we shared it with our other Five Eyes partners. MI6 came back with a hit.”
“What kind of hit?”
“Four of the men were identified as active Spetsnaz soldiers. The fifth, though, is the most interesting,” explained Rogers as he brought up a photo. “Meet Josef Ilya Kozak. Also Spetsnaz, but, more important, a colonel in Russian Military Intelligence—specifically, the GRU’s special missions group.”
The President stared at the man’s picture. He had a drawn, gaunt face, punctuated by dull, lifeless eyes. The photo looked as if it had been snapped at the moment the man’s soul had been taken from his body. He had a disturbing aura about him. It wasn’t cruelty. It was more than that. The man looked evil. Everyone in the room sensed it.
“So,” said Porter, “if I may?”
“Of course,” replied Rogers, ceding the floor.
“We have Kopec, a known Russian asset, who was followed to the safe house by at least one, and presumably more, Russian Special Forces operatives. In the house, four Americans are brutally murdered and one goes missing. Two vehicles associated with the attack are found abandoned, one very near the Canadian border. A private jet with Special Forces operatives, including a GRU colonel, posing as Finns leaves Montréal, allegedly headed for Finland. Then forty-five minutes before touchdown, the plane claims to be diverting to St. Petersburg, but lands in Murmansk once it believes the Finns are no longer paying attention to it. Do I have that about right?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Rogers. “But there’s something else. It may not be connected, but considering what we know, it could be. And if it is, it’s big.”
CHAPTER 29
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CRASH SITE
MURMANSK OBLAST
The scene from the air was horrific. The plane had torn a jagged scar through the forest and landed in three broken pieces on the edge of a clearing. There were no signs of life on the ground.
When the two black-and-neon-orange helicopters touched down, Teplov was the first off. From the moment the call had come in that the plane had been located, the hairs on the back of his neck had been standing up. He had no idea why. For some reason, his sixth sense, honed over decades in battle, was trying to warn him.
He divided his men into groups. His team took the tail section. Just before they were about to make entry through the rupture in the side of the fuselage, they found a body—or at least what was left of one.
Because of the shredded uniform, it appeared to be one of Josef’s Spetsnaz operatives. The man had been torn apart, and the skin covering the top of his head was missing. Who or what had done it, he had no idea. Pulling the butt of his rifle into his shoulder, Teplov cautiously led his men into the plane.
Immediately upon entering, he saw four scalps hung along a thick piece of wire, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up even further. It was like something out of a horror movie.
Just in front of them, a cargo container appeared to have been turned into a temporary shelter. His men searched inside, but it was empty. Behind the container, though, they found two bodies.
The first was one of the flight crew. His legs had been pinned beneath the container and his pants were stained with blood. Wrap
ped around one of his thighs was a makeshift tourniquet. It was hard to tell if the man had fashioned it himself or if someone had done it for him. Regardless, what was apparent was that he had bled out.
Next to him was another of Josef’s Spetsnaz operatives. As with his colleague outside, his scalp had been removed, but his body was still intact. Again, he was uncertain if the operative had frozen to death, died in the crash, or suffered some other fate.
Around them lay the carcasses of several wolves. They were large, but underweight.
It had been one of the longest, most brutal winters in memory. There were stories of starving wolf packs banding together in hordes to attack villages and even towns. Polar bears, unable to find food, had done the same. Throughout the Murmansk Oblast, Russians were living in fear of coming face-to-face with one of these vicious, wild creatures.
Suddenly, the radio crackled to life. From the front section of the wreckage came a report that the pilot and copilot had been found in the cockpit, burned beyond recognition.
The team in the middle section reported two corpses as well. The first was a flight crew member who had been shot. The other was a man with an apparent broken neck. He had been stripped of his clothes and his scalp had also been cut away.
Teplov didn’t need to see the body to wager that it was another of Josef’s Spetsnaz operatives.
Heading deeper into the tail section, one of his men found a set of empty shackles. Then, they found the body of the fourth and final soldier.
The man’s face had been caved in, beaten to a congealed, bloody pulp. Looking at the blood spatters along the interior of the fuselage, it was obvious that whatever had been used to bludgeon the man, the killer had swung the weapon in wide arcs and with extreme force over and over again. It was an act of excessive violence, an act of pure rage. His scalp was also missing.
The scalps had been a message. Someone was taking revenge. That someone was Harvath.
Getting on the radio, Teplov ordered two of his best shooters to break off their search of the wreckage and get to the helicopters. Unless he was lying dead somewhere out in the snow, Harvath was already on the run. And while he might have had a head start, Teplov had both superior numbers and superior equipment. Harvath wouldn’t stay hidden for long. Teplov was going to find him.
CHAPTER 30
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Harvath’s mind instantly went into fight mode. He had landed hard on his rucksack, with his chest and stomach fully exposed. He looked like a turtle that couldn’t right itself.
The large jet-black alpha wolf had come out of nowhere. It ripped and tore at him, sinking its long, sharp teeth into every part of his body that it could.
Using one arm to fend off the massive beast, he tried to reach for the shotgun, but it was pinned underneath him. The animal seemed to sense what was happening and intensified its attack, going for Harvath’s throat.
Drawing back his free hand, Harvath delivered an uppercut, punching the wolf right underneath the jaw. He followed it up with a strike to the side of the animal’s head. He did it again and again and again.
He kept punching until the beast jumped off him and backed away. Harvath knew that the retreat was only temporary. It would last just long enough for the wolf to shake off the pain and then come back at him. He would have enough time to make only one move.
Getting to his feet was out of the question. He would have to fight from the ground.
In the fraction of a second that it took for him to commit to what he was going to do and make ready for the attack, the animal struck again.
On his belt, beneath the trapper’s anorak, he had hung one of the dead man’s best knives. It was long and incredibly sharp, and when the wolf leaped at him he drove the blade in all the way to hilt, just below the creature’s breastbone.
The alpha, though mortally wounded, fought back viciously. It seemed determined to kill the man who had taken so many of its extended pack.
As the wolf slashed at him and tried to clamp its jaws around his throat, Harvath twisted the knife and drove it even deeper into the animal’s chest cavity. Slicing open its left ventricle, he drove his knee up into its belly, grabbed a fistful of the scruff around its neck, and yanked its mouth away from his neck.
Rolling to his left, he pushed the dying animal off him. He was covered in blood, though whose, he had no idea. Before he could assess his injuries, he had a bigger problem to deal with—the rest of the pack.
He had been so focused on the alpha that he hadn’t even noticed the others. Now that he could risk a look, he saw that they had him surrounded. Growling, their mouths dripping with saliva, they appeared ready to attack. None of them, though, were making the first move. With their alpha dead, they were waiting for a new alpha to step up and take charge. Harvath took full advantage of the situation.
Pushing himself up onto his feet, he unsheathed the shotgun, pointed it at the nearest group of wolves, and blasted away. And as soon as the first wolves dropped, he took off running.
He hadn’t attached the snowmobile’s kill switch cord to his clothing, nor had he wrapped it around his wrist. When the wolf had attacked, he had been revving the gas. When he had gotten knocked off, the sled had rocketed forward.
That was both a blessing and a curse. It was a curse because now he had to struggle through deep snow to get to it, but it was also a blessing, in that he could hear it was still running.
Turning, he cycled the shotgun and fired, then pumped and fired again, killing two wolves that were right behind him and practically biting at his heels.
As the animals fell, Harvath turned back and jumped onto the sled. It had come to a stop with its nose jammed against a tree. Throwing it into reverse, he backed up and fired again at the wolves. Then, tucking the hot shotgun beneath his leg, he turned the Yeti’s skis, slammed the gear selector into forward, and pinned the throttle.
He risked one look over his shoulder. The issue of who would be the new alpha seemed to have settled itself. Another enormous black wolf was leading the chase after him. It was unbelievable how fucking fast they were. Harvath gave the snowmobile even more gas.
Eventually, they receded into the distance. But even then, he kept going full speed for quite some time.
When he finally felt it was safe to stop, he did so. His eyes were burning, and as they teared from the wind, the tears turned quickly to ice. It was as if somebody had sprayed bleach in his face. It hurt like hell.
He needed to assess his injuries, which was difficult because he had so much of the alpha’s blood on him.
In addition, he knew the wolf had punctured his clothing several times and had succeeded in injuring him. The question was, how badly.
Reloading the shotgun and laying it over the handlebars, he removed his anorak and examined his new wounds. They were bad.
He had bite wounds to his chest and abdomen, as well as a gash along his upper left arm that was bleeding heavily. He attended to the bleeding first.
Dousing the wound with vodka, he selected the cleanest piece of clothing in his rucksack and used it as a bandage, securing it in place around his arm with duct tape.
Next he focused on the bite wounds. The first thing he did was to gently press on them to encourage bleeding. It was counterintuitive, but bites from dogs and wolves were often highly infectious. Encouraging the punctures to bleed was supposed to help flush out the bacteria.
As he had with the gash on his arm, he then cleansed the wounds with vodka and covered them with small pieces of cloth, which he held in place with duct tape.
By the time he carefully put the anorak back on, his body was trembling with cold.
He helped himself to a long slug of the multipurpose vodka before returning it to his backpack and securing the shotgun where he could get to it quickly if he needed to.
Off in the distance, he thought he could make out the sound of a helicopter. It was hard to hear over the noise from the Yeti’s engine. He didn’t
dare shut it off, though, for fear that he wouldn’t be able to start it again.
If there were helicopters in the area, that meant they had likely found the crash site. And if they had found the crash site, they had found the dead Spetsnaz operatives and everything else he had left behind. If they weren’t already looking for him, they would be soon, and a helicopter would all but guarantee they’d find him—unless he could get out of sight.
He needed to get to that town on the GPS, find someplace to hole up, and figure out how he was going to get across the border.
He also needed antibiotics. Eight hours was the window. If he waited any longer than that, the risk of infection multiplied.
If he got stuck hiding someplace, even out in the wilderness, while waiting for a search party to pass and he got sick, he could die before he ever saw Finland and freedom.
Fuck, he thought to himself. Siphoning gas was risky enough. Stealing a vehicle was even more dangerous. But trying to get his hands on medicine? That was a whole other set of problems he didn’t need. He had a serious decision to make.
Hitting the gas, he decided to wait until he got to town to settle on a plan.
CHAPTER 31
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He stayed in the trees as much as possible. Using the thick tree cover, he hoped to hide himself and the snowmobile’s tracks. He also made sure to keep the sled’s light off. Whenever he thought he heard a helicopter nearby, which was happening more and more often, he would seek cover and come to a full stop. Nothing attracted the human eye like movement. The harder he could make it for the search teams, the better.
When the helicopters were out of range, he would gun the snowmobile, covering as much distance as possible as quickly as possible. As he arrived at the outskirts of the town, the sun had already begun to set.
It was bordered by a wide river, which wasn’t iced over. There was one bridge on the southernmost edge of the town. He could either hide his snowmobile in the trees on this side or take it across and try to find someplace on the other side. He chose to take it across.
