by Brad Thor
“We never did that in the SEAL Teams, but I’ll take your word for it that other units like to do that.”
Mercer laughed again. “We had agreed to meet Ashford and the Brits, who had their own exfil plan, along with the Special Forces team that had gone into Saxony to hit the power plants. There was a little pub the SF guys had made their spot called the—”
“Leydicke,” Harvath interrupted. “Number four, Mansteinstrasse.”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“It’s a long story. Suffice it to say I was there many years ago and am familiar with the U.S. Army’s Special Forces Berlin unit. I know all about how they were a top secret guerrilla force meant to create all sorts of chaos if the Soviets ever overran the wall. The Leydicke was not only where they went to drink; it was an intel hub of sorts. If those walls only had ears…”
“Which, thankfully, they didn’t,” said Mercer.
“Anyway, it’s a great bar and played a significant unsung role in the history of the Cold War. There should be a big bronze plaque outside it.”
“I agree with you—on everything but the plaque. The place has been in the family for generations and I don’t think they’d want the attention.”
“Fair enough,” said Harvath.
“So we all met up at the Leydicke. The beer was flowing. The crazy SF guys all had their personalized beer steins wrapped at the bottom with pieces of barbed wire they risked their lives to steal from the wall. And we started talking about the op.
“When it gets to the takedown of the safe house, the SAS guys were super-modest and rushed through how it all went down. Textbook. More Russians than anticipated, but nothing that couldn’t be handled. Before you know it, ‘Bob’s your uncle,’ and Reed was administering what the Brits were calling ‘cowboy justice.’
“They talked about how merciless he had been and how the Russian had more than deserved it. One of the SAS men had even picked up the can, wanting to bring it out as a trophy, but it had been too big for his pack and so he had left it behind.
“Another proposed that Reed needed a new call sign—something that better reflected his most unique contribution to the operation. At that point, the ideas started flying: Mad Dog. Crusher. Ball Buster. Pincer. The Nutcracker.
“Finally, Ashford, who had been sipping on a schnapps, piped up in his effete, proper British accent and said, ‘Seeing as how our American colleague so elegantly weaponized that tin of Prunus persica, I think it only fitting that he should heretofore be known as Peaches.’
“It was, of course, the perfect call sign, and everyone absolutely lost it. I mean falling out of our chairs laughing. Have Peaches will travel—as a play on the old TV western—became a regular joke inside, and even outside, Huracan.”
Harvath smiled. He had always heard the nickname was a play on how rough the Old Man could be in interrogations. It was good to have a firsthand account of the origin story. He wasn’t done asking questions, though.
CHAPTER 32
“How’d you end up in Norway?” he asked as the waitress cleared their dishes away.
“Like I said, I’d had a lot of fun with Huracan. One morning, though, I just woke up and was ready to get out. As a Ranger, my body had taken a pretty good beating. Nothing a couple of surgeries couldn’t fix, but the pace and intensity with Reed was creating all new sorts of damage.
“Listen, I’m not complaining. Some guys are rock stars and can keep at it forever. I just wasn’t one of them. Did I believe in the mission? Absolutely. Did I mind climbing into the meat grinder day after day after day? Not at all. But then one day it was like a switch had been flipped. I was done. I’d had enough.
“Reed, as I mentioned, was plenty pissed. I tried to make it amicable, but there was no reasoning with him. You would’ve thought that I was walking out right in the middle of a gunfight. In the end, there was only so much that I could do. He took my departure the way he took it, and that was on him.
“There was this ‘ride-or-die’ mentality at Huracan. That’s all well and good. I understand camaraderie and unit cohesion. But it went beyond that.
“Several of the guys thought Reed was addicted to the job. I think it was a form of penance for him.”
“Penance?” Harvath asked.
“Did you ever meet his mentor? Thomas Carver Banks?”
“Tommy? Of course. He was a legend. One of the youngest OSS operatives in World War II. Killed a lot of Nazis—often by himself and with his own bare hands.”
“Back in their CIA days, I think he and Reed got into some serious, height-of-the-Cold-War sort of stuff—things neither of them could blot out simply by closing their eyes at night or saying a few extra Hail Marys.”
Though he didn’t need to say anything, he felt honor bound to defend Carlton. The man had been like a father to him. “Those were tough times,” Harvath replied. “Many people will never realize how much was at stake.”
“Agreed,” said Mercer. “We were very lucky to have them. Believe me, I’m not passing judgment on Reed or Tommy. All I’m saying is that sometimes the job required a certain moral flexibility. It wasn’t as cut-and-dried as it was with the Nazis. They had to make tough decisions, far from home, with the weight of the world upon them, and I have no reason to believe they didn’t make the right decisions. It just seemed like it had taken a toll—at least on Reed.
“It wasn’t that he was being chased by some kind of demon but that he was chasing after one. And no matter how hard or how fast he ran, he was always one step behind. It’s armchair psychology. I could be totally off. In my opinion, he had something to prove, and no matter how brilliant or courageous he was, he felt that he hadn’t done enough. I don’t know what got him to that spot, but I didn’t want to end up that way.”
Mercer was describing a side of Reed Carlton that Harvath had never seen. Maybe the Old Man had mellowed with age. Or maybe he had made peace with his past. Regardless, Harvath could understand why it impacted his calculus.
People got into, and out of, their business for lots of reasons. Nearly all of them came on board because they believed in the mission and wanted to defend the country. That was certainly true in Harvath’s case.
He had long believed that there could be no American dream without those willing to protect it. And while he had loved the summer and everything he and Sølvi were building together down in Oslo, he had been itching to get back to work. It was part of who he was on a cellular level. He had always been about protecting those who could not protect themselves. He could never envision walking away from his career. Not fully.
Yet he understood why many people did. Plenty of them aged out and were forced to take retirement. Others wanted more stability and a job better suited to raising a family. He never faulted anyone for pulling the rip cord. The job was grueling. Not everyone was cut out for it. It had been incredibly tough on him and had exacted a heavy price. But each time he had been knocked back or knocked down, he had come back twice as strong and twice as determined.
That was something he had always felt he had in common with the Old Man. Both he and Reed were like lasers, singularly focused on the mission. At least he had been until he had lost Lara.
To have her killed right in front of him was a shock unlike anything he had ever experienced. Not only had it knocked him down; he had stayed down—for a good long while. He had been forced to reevaluate everything. Especially what he truly wanted out of life and what he was willing to do to get it.
Mercer intrigued him. They were similar in a lot of ways. “Tell me about your wife. You said she was part of your decision to move to Norway. How’d you two meet?”
“We’d just finished a punishing assignment in Marseille. One of the Spanish intel guys had a family home on Mallorca and said anyone who wanted it was welcome to use it. I had some vacation days in the bank, so I took him up on it. While the rest of the Huracan team flew back to the U.S., I headed off for a week of R & R in the Mediterranean sun. I met H
ilde my first day there.
“She stepped out of a café in Port de Sóller and I remember never having seen a woman that beautiful before. I stood there gaping, feeling like my feet were set in concrete, as she turned the corner and vanished.”
“And you call yourself a Ranger,” Harvath said, mocking him good-naturedly.
“Right?” Mercer chuckled. “Once I managed to put my eyes back in my head and shake the tranquilizer dart from my rump, I went looking for her. I tore every inch of that village apart, but I still couldn’t find her.
“I felt like an idiot for not having walked up to her the moment I first saw her. I was just kind of stunned by how gorgeous she was. Kicking myself, I headed to the beach and got a few hours of sun before returning to the house for a nice, long siesta. By the time I finally got showered and headed out to eat, the bars and restaurants were packed.
“Before leaving Madrid, I had been given a list of all the best places to try out in Port de Sóller. At a very cool spot called Randemar, I was able to snag a seat on the terrace. This place had everything: super music, a great view over the water, incredible food—ten out of ten. And I had just ordered a gin and tonic, when my fifteen out of ten walked in. She looked even more amazing than she had when I’d seen her leaving the café.
“Needless to say, I didn’t make the same mistake I had made earlier in the day. She was traveling alone and I invited her to have dinner with me. And now here I am, living in Kirkenes.”
“Obviously, it was meant to be,” said Harvath, smiling, “but I think you left out a few chapters of the story.”
Mercer nodded. “We started dating. It got pretty serious. And I decided I wanted out of Huracan. After making some quiet calls around D.C., I found out about a NATO liaison position between American and Norwegian forces. It paid well enough, had good benefits, and most importantly was based in Norway.
“Hilde and I got married and spent a lot of time in this area. She grew up here and has lots of family around these parts. When I was ready to retire, this seemed as good as any other place. Being from Chicago, I can almost stomach the winters here, but we still spend as much of them as possible away on vacation.”
“Any kids?” Harvath asked.
“Hilde has a son from a previous relationship. He lives up here as well. Works at the joint U.S.-Norwegian radar installation at Vardø.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s a systems engineer. His job involves things like parametrics, signal processing algorithms, and a bunch of other stuff that makes absolutely no sense to an old knuckle dragger like me.”
Harvath smiled and asked him another question. “How do you know Holidae Hayes?”
“I’m kind of the village bicycle. I get handed from one station chief to the next.”
“Does that mean you freelance for the Agency from time to time?”
Mercer winked. “Maybe. Just don’t tell my wife.”
“If I ever meet her, I’ll make sure not to mention it.”
Standing up, the man said, “Well, get ready not to mention it.”
Harvath glanced over his shoulder and saw a stunning woman accompanied by two young men headed down the pedestrian thoroughfare in their direction. She was well above average in height with long dark hair and the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
“What a surprise,” Mercer announced, leaning over the patio railing to give his wife a kiss. “I didn’t think I’d see you until I got home.”
“When a lady gets invited to coffee with two handsome men, how can she say no?”
Mercer shook hands and greeted the two young men in Norwegian before turning to Harvath and making introductions. “Scot Harvath, I’d like you to meet my wife, Hilde, my handsome stepson, Marcus, and his handsome best friend, Arne, who also works at Vardø.”
“Nice to meet all of you,” said Harvath, who had stood up from the table to greet them. “Would you like to join us?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t,” Marcus replied. “We’ve been called in early. All hands on deck today.”
“Movement?” Mercer asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“The fucking Russians,” his stepson replied, before quickly adding, “Sorry, Mom.”
“I’m glad we were still able to meet for coffee,” she said, ignoring his bad language. “And it was nice to see you too, Arne.”
“You too,” the young man said.
“What do you do at Vardø?” Harvath asked.
“He pepper-sprays the protestors,” Marcus joked. “And if you show up without your ID, it’s his job to strap you to the electric chair.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It’s not,” Arne replied. “I’m a security guard at the installation.”
“He’s the best security guard at the installation. Already promoted twice this year.”
“Only because my aim with the pepper spray is so good,” he joked back.
“Who protests a radar station?” Harvath asked.
“Take your pick,” Arne answered. “Animal rights people who say the signals interfere with migratory birds. Supporters of the Sámi people who believe the signals diminish reindeer fertility. Climate change people who believe the signals are causing extreme weather. Anti-American people who want Norway out of all partnerships with the U.S. Civil liberties people who believe the station is being used to spy on Norwegian citizens. Even Vardø locals who complain that the new-generation GLOBUS is bigger than agreed to and may cause cancer. We’ve seen it all.”
“And they get violent enough that you have to break out pepper spray?”
“Marcus likes to exaggerate. I’ve only deployed the spray once. Twice if you count the cannister that ruptured in the trunk of my car. The one time I intentionally deployed it was on a violent, drunk ex-husband who had showed up looking to cause trouble for his ex-wife. Other than that, it is a rather boring place to work.”
Marcus feigned outrage, pretending that his friend had just given away a massive state secret. “How dare you? Every day at Vardø is like Mission Impossible. Assassins. Car chases. Gunfights. We really have seen it all. And if you say anything different at the bar tonight with Anna and Sigrid, you’re no longer my best friend.”
“Those poor girls,” said Hilde, laughing. “Thank you for the coffee, boys. It was nice seeing you. Let’s do it again when you have more time.”
The two young men said goodbye and then Hilde came around and joined her husband and Harvath at their table on the patio.
“So, Mr. Scot Harvath,” she said, sitting down. “I assume you’re the reason my husband slipped out of my bed in the middle of the night and disappeared?”
“I was just sitting here, minding my own business, eating my breakfast. I’ve never met this man before in my life,” Harvath replied with a smile.
“Hmmmmmm,” the woman said.
It was one of the most common responses in Norwegian—a placeholder while the speaker decided what to say, or not to say, next.
Harvath could see why Mercer had fallen for her. In addition to her beauty, she was witty and highly intelligent. She reminded him of Sølvi.
“You’re never going to believe this,” said Mercer. “It turns out that both of us worked for the same person.”
“Hmmmmmm,” she repeated. “I’ll bet that I can spell the name of that person’s organization with just three letters.”
“Is it CNN?” he asked with a grin.
“No, but you’re getting warm,” she teased back. “At least warmer than our bed was this morning.”
“I’m starting to feel a bit uncomfortable,” Harvath interjected.
“You shouldn’t,” said Hilde. “He likes to think that I don’t know that he still works for the CIA from time to time. But once a spy, always a spy. Right, my love?”
Mercer stifled a smile and pulled out his wallet to pay for the breakfast. “It sounds very exciting, but I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You also have no idea what you’r
e doing,” Harvath added, removing cash from his pocket. “I’m paying for breakfast.”
“Fair enough,” Mercer said as he put away his wallet. “Next one’s on me. We’ll toast to our old friend.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
But as Harvath sat with the couple and finished his coffee, he had an uneasy feeling. Something was coming. Something bad.
CHAPTER 33
Wet-work teams were not easy to move from country to country. Much care had to be taken so as not to leave a trail.
In one of the most famous examples of carelessness, the Saudis had sent a team into Turkey to kill a dissident journalist and left clue after clue. It was exceedingly unprofessional. It should have also been humiliating, but Saudi Arabia was a coarse nation not known for introspection or a sense of shame.
China, on the other hand, was quite concerned with how it was perceived by the world. The concept of “face” mattered not just on a personal level but on a national one as well.
The operatives sent to watch Han’s back were both experienced and highly regarded. They would make sure he had all the support he needed. His success would be their success. By the same token, his failure would be their failure. And at no point would they embarrass themselves or their nation.
They had been launched from Finland, where Chinese people formed one of the largest immigrant groups. And because Norway and Finland were both part of Europe’s twenty-six-nation Schengen Area, they were able to take advantage of an open border.
The crossing at Neiden, just west of Kirkenes, was more a formality than anything else. The guards were so used to seeing Asian visitors that all the Chinese team had to do was hold up their Finnish passports and they were waved right through. There was no search of their vehicle and therefore no risk of the cleverly hidden weapons and equipment they were transporting being discovered.
Per their training, as they drove into town they conducted a slow sweep, familiarizing themselves with landmarks, critical infrastructure, and the locations of first-responder headquarters such as the police and fire departments.
