Backlash: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  “Ice, correct?” he asked as he uncorked the Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve 20 Year.

  The SPEHA nodded.

  Usually he drank his neat, but he knew that the Ambassador was an ice aficionado.

  In addition to his love of American bourbons, the Russian had become quite enamored of the huge pieces of crystal-clear ice served at upscale bars around D.C. He had made it his personal mission to learn how to do it himself. He quizzed every bartender, bought every silicone mold they suggested, and tried every kind of water, from bottled to boiled.

  The end product was a perfect cube that looked as if it had been laser-cut from a pristine glacier.

  As a Sinatra fan as well, Sazanov had ordered custom rocks glasses with the faux country club logo Frank had designed himself.

  It seemed a waste to pour one of the best bourbons in the world over a huge chunk of ice, but Rogers was the consummate diplomat. He thanked his host, they clinked glasses, and each took a sip.

  The Ambassador savored it and closed his eyes. “You need to tell me where you found this. I want to send some bottles back to Moscow.”

  Rogers chuckled. “You don’t find Pappy like this. It finds you. Kind of like being struck by lightning.”

  Sazanov opened his eyes and smiled. “Please. How did you find it?”

  The SPEHA decided to give up his secret. “The Vice President knows a private collector. After you were so generous in helping get our citizen back, I asked him to make a call.”

  “The Vice President of the United States?”

  “The man himself.”

  “I did not know. That is an incredible honor.”

  Rogers took another sip and said, “If you can help us with our current situation, I think we can help find a lot more Pappy for you.”

  Instantly, the expression on the Russian’s face changed, and he lowered his glass. “I am sorry, Brendan. I went to the very top. We don’t have him. No one at the FSB, the GRU, or the Kremlin knows anything about his disappearance.”

  The SPEHA believed him. More specifically, he believed that’s what the Ambassador had been told. In fact, he had expected it.

  Taking another sip of bourbon, he set his glass down on the table, removed a folder from his briefcase, and handed it to Sazanov.

  “What’s this?” the Russian asked.

  “A glimpse into what we’ve been able to piece together so far. I think you should take a look at it.”

  The man did, starting with a detailed executive summary of what the Americans believed had happened to their operative, Scot Harvath. It was followed by a series of photographs. Attached to each was a short bio. The Americans had identified four Spetsnaz operatives as well as a GRU colonel.

  Unless the Americans were lying to him, it appeared his own government hadn’t told him the truth. “How did you come by all of this?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador,” answered Rogers, “but I am not authorized to discuss sources and methods.”

  Sazanov closed the folder. “What are you authorized to discuss?”

  “We’d like to find an immediate and peaceful resolution to this matter. I’m authorized to discuss any steps that might get us there.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Get Harvath back to us in the next twenty-four hours, and we won’t ask any questions. Maybe he was taken by a terrorist organization. Maybe he was taken by the Russian mafia. As long as he’s returned, we won’t challenge the story.

  “And just so we’re clear, if you want to use a third-party nation—Germany, China, Syria, Belarus, or even the Iranians—we don’t care. We just want Harvath back. In fact, President Porter will publicly praise any third party and give them credit, if that’s the route you choose to take.”

  The Ambassador looked at his watch. “I am going to have to make another round of phone calls.”

  “I understand,” said the SPEHA. “But before you do, there’s something else I need to share with you.”

  Withdrawing another folder from his briefcase, the SPEHA handed it to his host. “Your President has approximately forty billion dollars in personal assets hidden outside of Russia. As of twenty minutes ago, half of them have been frozen. Inside that folder, you’ll find a full list.

  “If Harvath is back to us within twenty-four hours, we’ll unfreeze everything. If he’s not, your President will never see that money again. What’s more, we’ll go public so that the entire world, but especially the Russian people, see the extent to which he has pillaged your country.”

  Sazanov’s temper flared. “This is blackmail.”

  “This is business,” Rogers said, stone-faced. “Nothing more. Nothing less. And, to demonstrate that we’re not completely unreasonable, if your government provides us with proof of life within the next eight hours, we will unfreeze five billion of your president’s assets.”

  “You don’t understand how Russia works. I’m going to get blamed for this.”

  “You’re not going to get the blame. You’re going to get the credit. As far as anyone is concerned, unfreezing the five billion in exchange for proof of life was your idea.”

  The Ambassador shook his head. “Don’t throw me your bones. I don’t want them.”

  “Egor, you’re a good man. The kind of man Russia needs.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We think you’re someone we can work with.”

  Sazanov held up his hand. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

  “If you help make this happen, the United States will be in your debt.”

  “In my debt how?”

  Rogers smiled. “You have a long political career ahead of you in Russia. We want to help you be successful.”

  “You want to help me. That’s interesting. Okay, I’m listening.”

  “We can work out the details later, but suffice it to say that there’s a laundry list of items your government wants from the United States. Some of which we’d be willing to agree to. We would make sure the press covered you coming and going from the White House. Maybe you and a key cabinet member would be seen golfing. Then you—”

  “I don’t like golf,” the Ambassador replied. “I prefer sailing. Like your President Kennedy.”

  “That’s perfect. The Treasury Secretary loves to sail. The fact is that we could help promote you not only as a diplomat Americans trust but also as someone who helps get results for the Russian people.”

  Sazanov shook his head. “The Foreign Minister, much less the Russian President, would never allow me to steal their thunder. I could never take credit.”

  “I agree,” replied the SPEHA. “But the best part is, you wouldn’t have to. Based on the press reports alone, people would recognize that it was you who was doing the heavy lifting. Your best course of action would be to downplay your involvement, show humility. Let the American President declare how much he appreciated your role in bringing Russia and the United States together.

  “We will help see to it that you are recognized as one of the most successful Ambassadors to have ever served Russia. Believe me, being seen as a diplomat whom America respects and listens to can go a long way for you back home.”

  The Russian took another sip of his bourbon. He liked what he was hearing. It was an interesting proposition.

  It was also fraught with incredible danger. If President Peshkov developed the slightest suspicion that he was cooperating with the Americans, he was as good as dead. Diplomats, journalists, dissidents—no one was safe. That was how Russia, at least under its current President, operated. Sazanov had everything to lose.

  He also had everything to gain. An offer like this, the backing of the world’s most powerful nation, wouldn’t come around a second time.

  Still, the Russian was wise enough to not jump too quickly. “I appreciate the confidence your nation has in me,” he said. “Let me think about it.”

  Rogers understood.

  Draining the rest of the bourbon from his glass, he stood and exte
nded his hand. The two men shook.

  “Just don’t take too long,” the SPEHA said. “If you do, both of our nations are going to regret it.”

  CHAPTER 36

  * * *

  * * *

  MURMANSK OBLAST

  Harvath was on edge. He disliked not having a plan. As the doctor thoroughly cleaned and dressed his wounds, he tried to build rapport by asking her questions.

  Her name was Christina. She had attended medical school in the city of Archangel at the Northern State Medical University. As part of her training, she had studied abroad in London. After returning home, she had taken over the clinic.

  The town, known as Nivsky, had been founded in 1929 as a settlement for laborers building a nearby hydroelectric plant. Not much happened in Nivsky. Its people were proud, worked hard, and hoped for better lives for their children.

  Christina and her husband had met at medical school, where he was studying military medicine. They had no children.

  She was about ten years younger than Harvath, and in addition to being very pretty, she was also very athletic. In the winter, she did a lot of snowshoeing and cross-country skiing. The rest of the year, when the Oblast wasn’t frozen solid, she was into hiking and mountain biking.

  The rifle she had been carrying was a Russian-made Molot-Oruzhie. Though they were far enough from the ice not to worry about polar bears, the wolves had been a big problem. Everyone in town was carrying some sort of firearm. Considering how much drinking went on in Nivsky, Christina expressed surprise that there hadn’t been any “friendly fire” incidents yet.

  Harvath smiled at her joke. She hadn’t responded to his request to get him to the border, and he wasn’t going to push her—yet. He knew she was thinking about it.

  “When was the last time you ate?” she asked.

  “Besides the yogurt I found in your fridge?”

  She nodded.

  “I had some of your uncle’s smoked bear meat and a can of carrots earlier today.”

  The woman shuddered. “Are you hungry?”

  Harvath nodded. He was ravenous.

  Christina walked up to the front office, returned with a paper takeout menu, and handed it to him. It was from the bar and café he had passed on his way through the center of town. His inability to read Russian was negated by the fact that there were pictures of everything.

  “Is this for real?” he asked, pointing at one of the items.

  “The cheeseburger?” she replied. “It’s actually quite good. Even better if you get it with bacon.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take two of them. And a slice of the chocolate cake.”

  The woman laughed. “And to drink?”

  “A Diet Coke.”

  “Because you’re concerned about calories.”

  Harvath smiled. “Obviously.”

  She shook her head, walked over to the phone on the wall, and dialed the number.

  He paid attention as she placed the order, alert for any sign that she was giving him away to the authorities. There was nothing, though—not in the way she spoke or in what she said—to give him any concern.

  “Twenty minutes,” she stated as she hung up the phone and turned back to face him.

  One of the few things he had not lost when he plunged into the icy river was the money he had taken off the dead Spetsnaz soldiers. He peeled off several bills and handed them to her. “For the food and the medical care.” Then, peeling off several more, added, “And for the damage to your door.”

  Christina accepted his offer, and then took the rest of his money as well. “If I’m going to help get you to the border, we’re going to need additional supplies. I think it’s better if I do the shopping. Your Russian really is terrible.”

  Harvath was incredibly relieved. His odds of escape had just improved dramatically. He wanted to throw his arms around her. Instead, he maintained his professional composure. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t thank me yet. Wait till we’re at the border.”

  Once again, he smiled. “Fair enough.”

  Over the last several days he had endured physical, psychological, and emotional torture. He hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to smile again. Now, he’d done so twice in less than five minutes.

  “What can I do for you in return?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe nothing. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “How far ahead have you thought?”

  “Dinner, as well as hiding my uncle’s snowmobile before people start wondering why he’s back and no one has seen him.”

  Good point. “What can I do?”

  “First, I’m going to give you an antibiotic injection,” she replied. “Then I’m going to give you day one of your rabies vaccination, which is one dose of rabies vaccine, plus a one-time shot of rabies immune globulin, which loads rabies antibodies into your system.”

  “What about follow-on shots?”

  “You’ll need three more rabies shots—on the third, seventh, and fourteenth days from exposure. I’ll put together everything you need, so you can take it with you. I assume you’re not afraid of injecting yourself?”

  “I can handle an injection.”

  “Good, because if the wolf that attacked you was rabid and you did nothing, it would be a death sentence. Rabies is over 99 percent fatal. By the time a victim notices symptoms, it’s too late.”

  “Then I’m glad I found your clinic.”

  “And how lucky for you my door was open.”

  Before he could respond, she had swabbed his left arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball and jabbed him with the antibiotic shot. There was no preamble. There wasn’t even an “On three” where she tricked him and pricked him on “two.” She just jabbed the needle into his arm as if she wanted to pay him back for kicking the door in, and also, maybe, as if she wanted to see if he could take it.

  “I hope I didn’t bend your needle,” he said, flexing the muscles in his arm after she withdrew it.

  Taking his joke in stride, Christina examined it and replied, “I think we can still use it for your next two shots. I’ll just rinse it under some water.”

  For a second, Harvath thought she was being serious. Then he saw her discard it into a sharps container and prep two more syringes.

  “When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?” she asked.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Within the last ten years?”

  Harvath thought for a moment. “I’m not sure.”

  Christina prepared an additional shot and then brought everything over on a tray and set it next to him.

  She started to prep his right arm for the rabies vaccination, but he stopped her. His right arm was his dominant arm, and he didn’t need it getting sore. He was in bad enough shape already.

  “Can you inject that someplace else?” he asked. “I want to keep that arm as functional as possible.”

  “The rabies vaccine has to go into a deltoid, but I can use your left arm again,” she replied. After swabbing the area, she gave him the shot.

  “You’re getting better at this,” he remarked. “That one didn’t hurt at all.”

  “Make sure you leave a five-star review,” she quipped before motioning for him to remove his leggings and roll over onto his stomach.

  He did as she asked and she swabbed his left butt cheek. “This is the tetanus injection.”

  “Give it your best shot,” he replied.

  She rolled her eyes, administered the medication, and then prepped the fourth and final syringe, along with another cotton ball soaked in alcohol.

  “This is the immune globulin, and it’s going to hurt,” she said as she swabbed a spot on his right cheek.

  “Seriously?” he asked, turning his head to look over his shoulder at her.

  “I’m only kidding,” she replied as she gave him the injection. “Hopefully, there’s no more pain in your future.”

  It was a nice sentiment, but Harvath f
eared that there was a lot more pain to come. In fact, the closer they got to the border, the more dangerous things were going to get.

  CHAPTER 37

  * * *

  * * *

  NIVSKY

  MURMANSK OBLAST

  There was nothing subtle about Teplov. He always wanted to make a big statement. Step in. Scare the shit out of people. Take charge. That was how he rolled.

  So instead of landing the helicopters on the soccer field outside of town, he had them land right in the middle of the town square.

  The thunderous, beating blades of the enormous birds sent tremors through buildings for blocks around. Their rotor wash pelted cars with shards of ice and frozen snow. The men of Wagner had arrived.

  Hopping out of his helo, Teplov immediately began barking orders. He wanted his men and cargo unloaded immediately.

  The patrons inside the Frosty Pelican, their faces pressed up against the windows, couldn’t believe what they were seeing. They watched as one of the giant helicopters disgorged soldiers who were dressed from head to toe in winter camouflage. The other helicopter spat out snowmobiles and crates of equipment. It was like a scene out of the American movie Red Dawn. It was as if they were being invaded. And in a sense, they were.

  Shortly before touching down, an encrypted call had come in from Minayev. After isolating it to Teplov’s headset, the two had conducted a brief conversation, with the GRU General doing most of the talking. President Peshkov had put an eight-hour window on finding Harvath. He not only wanted him found, he had demanded immediate, verifiable proof of life.

  When Teplov asked what had caused the increased urgency, Minayev had snapped at him. Reminding him who was in charge, he had told him to do his “fucking job” or else.

  Something had gone wrong. And, as shit always rolled downhill, Teplov had the unenviable position of being at the very bottom.

  Before Minayev hung up on him, Teplov had asked if there were any restrictions on him and his men. Specifically, was there anything the Kremlin wouldn’t allow, as long as they tracked Harvath down? The General’s answer was succinct and to the point—Do whatever it takes.