by Brad Thor
Christina smiled at him. “Very well done.”
“You know that’s not normal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The way your mind works. Most people don’t think two steps ahead, much less three.”
“Well, I’m definitely not normal, and absolutely not like most people.”
Harvath smiled back. “There is one problem, though. The snowmobile.”
“What about it?”
“There’s no way I could have covered the distance from the crash site to here so quickly—not on foot. I am assuming they found your uncle’s cabin and the snowmobile tracks, which explains why they’re here. This was the closest town.
“I am also going to assume that they know I have a GPS device and that’s how I got here. Their proof will come when they find the snowmobile in the shed behind your clinic. There’s an attachment on the handlebars for it.”
Christina hadn’t considered that. “You could leave the GPS unit here. Then the missing page from the atlas would be believable. Let them think you are going completely off the grid.”
“Or, better yet, that I believe the grid will completely be going off.”
Now he had her completely confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Your uncle’s GPS device isn’t a tracker. It doesn’t send out a signal telling people where it is. Therefore, there’d be no reason for me to get rid of it. It’s too valuable. But if the GPS system stops working, then it’s worthless. At that point, I would need a map.”
“I still don’t understand. When was the last time the GPS system ever stopped working?”
“Last year. During NATO training exercises in Scandinavia, Finland accused Russia of jamming the GPS signal in their northern airspace. If I was concerned that they’d do it to prevent me from escaping, or from being rescued, I’d want a paper map as a backup.”
“So then my plan is good.”
“It is,” replied Harvath. “I think we can make it better.”
“How so?”
“With an Internet search of the same area. Does your uncle have a laptop or a tablet in the house?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t like technology. Didn’t trust it. The GPS device was as far as he would go.”
“Then we’ll have to run the risk of overplaying our hand,” he said as he walked over to the shelf, pulled the atlas back out and then placed it on the table next to the ballpoint pen. “I don’t want to take any chances that they miss it.”
She didn’t disagree.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked.
“There’s a Sámi village about twenty kilometers west of here.”
Harvath did a rough conversion in his head. Twelve miles. “But if the roads are shut down, how are we going to get there?”
“That depends. How much stamina do you have left?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“Good, because we’re going to have to ski.”
“Downhill or cross-country?”
She smiled at him again. “If it was all downhill, I wouldn’t ask about your stamina.”
“What about there not being enough reindeer skins to survive in this weather?”
“That was when we were talking about you going all the way to the border. Right now, all we have to do is get you to the village.”
Back out in the open, in the freezing cold, at night. Harvath wasn’t looking forward to it. “And then what?”
“I’m working on it.”
“What about gear? Skis?”
“You can use my husband’s equipment. It’s all here, in the garage,” she said, leading the way through the kitchen to a door in the back. Turning on the light, she pointed to some boxes and some things hanging on the opposite wall. “My uncle didn’t think it was healthy for me to be holding on to his things.”
“Where are your skis?”
“At my house, but there’s no time. I’ll show you on the GPS where you’re going and whom to ask for. Sini speaks English. She’ll take care of you.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. First I need to deal with those Wagner assholes. If I’m right, they’re going to be calling me any minute about a break-in at the clinic.”
“Before I go, I need you to promise me you’ll do something,” he replied.
“We’ve already wasted too much time. You need to hurry up and get out of here.”
“I’m not going unless you promise me.”
She couldn’t believe this guy. Two dozen former Russian Spetsnaz soldiers with helicopters, snowmobiles, and stolen SUVs were all looking for him, yet he wasn’t going to flee until he got a promise from her. She couldn’t decide if he was incredibly brave or just incredibly insane.
In the interest of getting him moving, she agreed. And while he geared up, she created a route on the GPS and wrote down everything he needed to do.
Then, standing outside in the snow, he handed her a small, folded piece of paper. “This is all you have to do.”
She looked at it. “Are you serious?”
“As serious as cancer,” he said, as he turned and skied off into the woods.
CHAPTER 40
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* * *
A litany of things had been flying through Christina’s mind as she maneuvered home. She had to remind herself not to speed. Though they were a tight-knit community, loyalty wasn’t guaranteed—not with soldiers in town offering rewards for information and beating people who resisted.
It reminded her of the stories her grandparents used to tell of life under communism. The most dangerous people weren’t the apparatchiks or the secret police. The most dangerous people were your neighbors, your coworkers, the babushka who swept the street. The reign of communist terror was successful at preventing another revolution because it was impossible to organize. You didn’t know who you could trust. Every person on every corner was a potential informant. Christina needed to be very careful.
She left the car outside, so the engine would cool more rapidly. She didn’t want to give away that she just arrived. When the Wagner thugs came calling, she wanted her alibi to be airtight. She had worked late, called in a takeout order, and had gone straight home.
Gathering up Harvath’s takeout containers, she brought them inside and spread them out across her kitchen counter. The meal had come with fries, which he had neglected, so she helped herself as she downed two quick shots of vodka to steady her nerves.
If anyone came calling, it was important that she appear to have been home, alone, drinking.
She had just poured a large glass of wine, from a half-empty bottle, when her bell rang. There was little doubt in her mind who it was.
Fries in hand, she walked up to the front door and opened it. Standing outside were three Wagner mercenaries. Front and center was the man in charge—the one from the bar who had held up Harvath’s picture and had given all the orders.
He was tall, with blond hair and several prominent facial scars. “Doctor Volkova?”
“Yes?” she replied, a half-eaten French fry in her mouth.
“My name is Colonel Kazimir Teplov. I am sorry to disturb you. May we come in?”
“What do you want?”
“It’s somewhat cold outside. If you wouldn’t mind I’d rather do this inside.”
Taking a moment to finish chewing her French fry, she then stood back and allowed the men to enter.
The rifle Teplov had been carrying at the bar was gone. From what she could see, he had only the sidearm holstered at his thigh. The two goons behind him, however, were not only carrying rifles, but appeared jumpy, ready to fire if anyone so much as sneezed.
“Thank you,” said Teplov, as he and his men stepped into her home. “As I said, my name is—”
“Kazimir Teplov. I know. I was in the bar when you and your people arrived.”
“Is that so?” he asked.
“It is so. By the way, the
man your soldiers beat unconscious, were you aware that he served honorably in the Russian Navy? And that he is also our auto mechanic.”
“I did not know that. I’m sorry. It was a most unfortunate incident.”
Christina despised this guy and was having a very hard time disguising it. “So, Mr. Teplov, what can I do for you?”
“It’s Colonel Teplov.”
“Is it?” she asked, pointing at the patch on his shoulder. “Because I didn’t know that Wagner mercenaries retained their rank from prior service in the Russian Armed Forces.”
Teplov smiled. “You know who we are.”
“Oh, I know all about you.”
“And how did you come by this knowledge?”
Walking over to her kitchen counter, she picked up her wine, crossed her arms just as she took a long sip, and said, “Because I’m a Wagner widow.”
For a moment, Teplov’s mask slipped. He was genuinely surprised. “Who was your husband?”
“Demyan Volkov,” she responded. “He was killed in Syria. Latakia Province.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“So am I. What is it you want, Mr. Teplov?”
He looked at the food containers. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Why do you ask?”
He walked over and read the receipt taped to the top of one of the containers. “Two bacon cheeseburgers, chocolate cake, French fries? Sounds like a lot of food for a woman your size.”
“Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Teplov?”
He paused and, looking at her, replied, “Should I be?”
“That depends. If you asked the new girl what I normally order, she would tell you it’s always salads. Sometimes, though, I get fish or chicken. If you ask someone who isn’t new, they’ll tell you the same thing, but they’ll add that several times a year, I come in and order a very large, very unhealthy meal.
“When that happens, it tends to be on a significant anniversary—the day I met my husband, the day he died, the day we got married, or the day we had our first date, which today happens to be the anniversary of.”
“Again, I’m truly sorry,” said Teplov. “I didn’t know.”
Extending her wineglass in a mock toast, she then brought it back in and took an even longer slug. “What they won’t tell you,” she said, once she had swallowed, “because none of them know, is that after I bring the food home and eat it, I drink way more than I should—usually several bottles. The next day I am pretty useless.”
He had no reason to doubt the veracity of her account, so he decided to cut to the chase. Taking out the photo of Harvath he had shown around the bar, he presented it to her. “Have you seen this man? We believe he may be hiding somewhere here in town.”
“I have not,” she answered.
“Would you mind if my men took a look around your house? As I explained in the bar, the American is armed and very dangerous.”
Christina raised her palms. “I don’t know why he’d be here, but go ahead. Be my guest.”
Teplov nodded and his men commenced their investigation. Turning his attention back to her, he said, “We were concerned you might be in danger.”
“In danger? Of what?”
“During our search for the fugitive, some of my men passed by your clinic. Were you aware that the back door had been kicked in?”
“Kicked in by whom? When?”
“We don’t know. We assume it was the American and that it happened within the last couple of hours.”
“Was anything stolen?” she asked, trying to appear concerned.
“We found some bloody gauze pads in the trash as well as an empty antibiotic vial, plus two for rabies. Have you had cause to treat anyone for rabies recently?”
Christina shook her head. “I have not.”
“Interesting.”
She had no idea if he believed her or not, but the alcohol had emboldened her. “Where would your fugitive have been bitten by a dog?”
Teplov held up his index finger. “Not a dog. Wolves.”
“Jesus,” she replied.
“You don’t like wolves,” he said with a smile.
“Can’t stand them. They’ve been preying on people in the Oblast all winter. None of us go anywhere without a rifle. So far, though, they haven’t attacked people in Nivsky. Where did this happen?”
“A hundred kilometers east of here.”
“Wonderful. In addition to a murderer, we also have killer wolves on our doorstep,” she said, before changing the subject. “How bad is the back door to my clinic. Was there any other damage?”
“None that my men have reported.”
“Anything stolen? Besides the things you found in the trash?”
“They couldn’t tell,” he responded. “It sounds like some sort of cabinet used for storing medicines was broken into.”
“Damn it,” she cursed. Then, downing what remained in her wineglass, she grabbed her parka, which had been hanging over one of the kitchen chairs.
“What are you doing?” demanded Teplov.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Someone broke into my clinic. I need to know how bad the damage is.”
“I don’t think you should be driving.”
“Pardon me, but who’s the soldier and who’s the doctor?” she asked.
“Fair enough,” said Teplov. “But you’re part of the Wagner family. It’s our duty to look out for you. The American could be anywhere.”
There was no point in arguing with them. She would accept an escort, but she wasn’t going to get in a car with them. “I’m okay to drive. You can follow me to the clinic if you wish. Are your men ready to go?”
Teplov called out to his men. Moments later, they materialized and gave him the thumbs-up. They hadn’t uncovered any sign of the American. The house was clean.
Locking the door behind them, Christina hopped into her 4x4 and headed back to her clinic.
She drove fast, but not too fast. She was well aware that if Teplov was the top man, and he had come out to her house, then she was his top lead. That meant that every moment she kept him and his men tied up was another moment that helped Harvath get farther away.
She just hoped that she had understood Harvath’s directions correctly.
CHAPTER 41
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* * *
HOSTAGE RECOVERY FUSION CELL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Hit!” Nicholas exclaimed from the desk he had been given in the center of the room. “Hit! Hit! Hit!”
His dogs, which the FBI Director had allowed in the building as “service animals,” leaped to attention. Growling, they scanned for threats until Nicholas commanded them to lie down.
“What do you have?” the SPEHA asked as he rushed over. “Is it Harvath?” After his meeting with the Russian Ambassador, he could use some good news.
Nicholas had a smile on his face that stretched from ear to ear. “It’s his rescue protocol. And the code is one hundred percent his,” he said, pointing to his screen.
On it was an Instagram account with only a few thousand followers, all of them fakes. It had been set up as a digital dead drop.
The Carlton Group paid a trusted source in Iceland to update it with posts about makeup, fashion tips, and celebrity gossip. When Harvath, or someone operating under his authority, popped up and commented on the most recent entry, Nicholas was overjoyed. Rogers, on the other hand, was pragmatic.
“I know you’re excited,” he said. “Slow it down for me, though. What are we looking at?”
Nicholas was all too happy to explain. “Like the CIA, The Carlton Group has developed situation-dependent communication protocols. They run the gamut from transmitting SITREPs while under surveillance in friendly nations, to an operative transmitting a distress signal from inside a hostile country. We just received the latter from Harvath.”
“You’re positive it’s him?”
Nicholas nodded. “No question. It’s his authenticat
ion code and everything.”
The SPEHA stared at the Instagram comment. “You can be absolutely sure, just from this?”
Nicholas nodded again, emphatically. “Harvath set all of this up himself. Using Instagram was his idea, as were all the code words. He also built in a way for us to immediately know if the message was being sent under duress.”
“Under duress?”
“That someone was forcing him to write it,” Nicholas explained. “That doesn’t appear to be the case here.”
“So what do we have?”
“First, he’s alive. He’s fucking alive. Thank God.”
“And next?” Rogers asked.
“He posted from Russia. Specifically Nivsky, a town in the Murmansk Oblast. But he’s on the move.”
“On the move where?”
“West,” stated Nicholas. “He’s trying to get to the border with Finland.”
“That’s fantastic,” said the SPEHA. “How do we get in touch with him?”
Nicholas looked up from the screen. “He doesn’t have access to a means of secure communication.”
“Then how do we pinpoint his location?”
“We can’t. All we have is his last known location. I can only imagine what it took to get this message out to us.”
“Agreed,” stated Rogers. “Okay, listen up, people,” he called out to the Fusion Cell. “According to what we just learned, we may have found our man. He does appear to be in Russia. He’s on the run. Our starting point is a town called Nivsky, in the Murmansk Oblast, heading west. All hands on deck. I want to fix his precise location. Start pulling SIGINT, geospatial, all of it. I’ll be damned if the Russians are going to beat us. Let’s move!”
CHAPTER 42
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MURMANSK OBLAST
