Black Ice

by Brad Thor

  He checked the screen and housing of the GPS device for cracks or other damage. Everything looked good—until he opened the battery compartment.

  Mercer hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d left in a hurry. Both batteries had been left inside the unit and had corroded.

  Prying them out, he looked inside. He had fresh ones, but the battery compartment would need to be cleaned with some sort of household acid like vinegar. Right now, he had neither the time nor the inclination to hunt down a grocery store.

  So he tucked the pistol, suppressor, and extra magazines into his front coat pockets and placed everything else, including the latex gloves, in his backpack. Then he crawled out from under the building the same way he’d come in.

  He brushed the coal dust off his clothes as best he could and continued into town.

  As it was almost the lunch hour, his plan was to reconnoiter the two restaurants and formulate plans of action.

  The Red Bear Pub & Brewery was the first establishment along his route, and he hoped it wasn’t the one the Consul General Nemstov was going to pick.

  Its only parking was along the street. Fine for a drive-by shooting. Not so good for snatching a Russian diplomat in the middle of the day.

  Complicating matters was the fact that there wasn’t a good spot from which to observe the brewpub without being seen. He hoped that the restaurant up the street at the Barentsburg Hotel would offer more options.

  To Harvath’s chagrin, it was even worse. While the hotel had a nice little side parking lot, it sat alone, with even fewer places he could conceal himself.

  And as if things weren’t bad enough, a cold rain had begun to fall. In the back of his mind, Harvath could hear Mercer laughing.

  Putting up his hood, he continued on.

  Moments later, he watched as a silver Toyota Land Cruiser with Corps Diplomatique plates drove past and turned into the hotel parking lot.

  When the vehicle came to a stop, a man in the front passenger seat stepped out, unfurled an umbrella, and then opened the rear passenger door for another man. The pair walked together inside as the driver turned the vehicle around, parked, and followed his colleagues into the hotel.

  Even though Nicholas had shown him a picture of Anatoly Nemstov, he didn’t need to see the Consul General’s face from this distance to know it was him. According to Holidae, there were no other diplomats in town, nor were any scheduled to be there, much less with vehicles bearing diplomatic plates.

  Nevertheless, Harvath wanted to make a positive identification. He also wanted to get the hell out of this rain.

  He decided to follow them inside.

  CHAPTER 53

  Before going inside, Harvath did a quick sweep of the vehicles in the lot. Not only had Mercer explained that there was almost no crime on Svalbard, but the residents were very trusting, leaving their homes unlocked and the keys in their cars and snowmobiles. That appeared to be the case here as well.

  Every vehicle was unlocked, and all of the drivers had left their keys or fobs behind. Every driver except for the man piloting the silver Land Cruiser. The Consul General’s security agent had locked it up tight.

  There was a ton of junk in the cargo area—maybe even enough that he could have hidden himself beneath the partially folded tarp and ridden back to the consulate with them undetected. Had he been willing to use his phone, he could have photographed the VIN, texted it to Nicholas, and asked him to hack Toyota roadside assistance to pop the locks remotely. But he wasn’t supposed to be using his phone and there was no telling how long that would take. He was going to have to try something else.

  Entering the hotel, the first thing he noticed was the shoe cubby, along with a sign explaining the local custom of visitors removing their shoes so as not to track coal dust inside. A wicker chest with complimentary slippers stood nearby.

  Harvath untied his boots and, following protocol, placed them in one of the cubbies. More than half the patrons had ignored the complimentary slippers and so he did too.

  Shaking the rain from his jacket, he walked deeper into the hotel toward the restaurant. Stopping at the hostess stand, he pretended to look at the menu as he did a quick sweep of the room. In the corner, along with his two security agents, Harvath positively identified Anatoly Nemstov.

  As he did, the hostess returned from seating another party and asked if she could help him.

  “Is it required that I sit in here?” he asked. “Or is it okay to sit in the bar?”

  “The Icebreaker bar is completely fine. You can order any of our food in there,” she replied, offering him a menu.

  Harvath thanked her, accepted the menu, and crossed over to the bar. It had been designed to look like the interior of an old icebreaker and provided a terrific view—of the Russian Consul General and his men.

  Taking a seat, he hung his jacket off the back of his chair rather than on one of the hooks near the entrance. He preferred to keep the gun as close as possible. There was still no telling how things would go down.

  When a young man came over to take his order, Harvath glanced at the menu and decided on the fish of the day—locally caught haddock—along with hot tea and extra lemon.

  The server thanked him, accepted his menu back, and went to place his order. Next to an old diving helmet behind him was a row of books, none of which were in English. He picked the closest one, set it on the table, and opened it up. If he couldn’t be on his phone scrolling like the rest of the customers, he had to find to something else to do so as not to appear out of place.

  Once the server returned with his hot tea and lemon, Harvath reached down into his backpack and removed the GPS device. He had already removed the bad batteries, so all that was left to do now was to clean out the alkaline discharge. And the next best thing for the job after vinegar was lemon juice.

  Squeezing a drop into each battery well, he waited a minute and then employed a small unused brush from the weapons cleaning kit to wipe away the white crystalline residue.

  He turned the GPS device upside down and gave it a few good taps beneath the table to make sure all the fouling was purged before twisting his napkin in each well so that it was dry. He then inserted new batteries and turned it on. Even though he couldn’t receive a signal indoors, the unit had no problem powering up.

  Satisfied, he shut the device down, returned everything to his pack, and went back to leafing through his book.

  As he did, he tried to figure out how he was going to handle the Consul General and his team. Taking him inside the hotel was out of the question—way too many witnesses.

  That meant it would have to happen outside. He could get ahead of them, fake an accident, and hope they stopped, or he could come up from behind, cause an accident, and force them to.

  The problem was that there was no way of knowing if there were any more security agents back at the consulate. Any security detail worth their salt would communicate a stop back to base.

  If Harvath was going to get to them, it was going to have to be outside and before they got rolling. That meant the parking lot, which didn’t leave him with a lot of options.

  The only thing it had going for it was that he hadn’t seen any cameras out there. That was a definite plus.

  The downside was that it was a very public space. If anyone was out there, he was going to have to make a very serious call. One he prayed he would not have to make.

  Eating his lunch, he tried to develop clever alternative scenarios, but none of them held water. There was only going to be one way to do this.

  From his table in the Icebreaker bar, Harvath watched as the Consul General not only ate but continued to drink with his security detail. As Mercer had predicted, it was quite the boozy Friday lunch.

  By the time the party rose to leave, they were a bit too loud and unsteady on their feet.

  After finishing what was left of his third espresso, Harvath paid his bill in cash, then walked out to the cubby, put his boots on, and exited the hotel.


  Standing in the service area off the parking lot, he removed the suppressor from his coat pocket, spun it onto the threaded barrel of his Beretta, and waited for the Russians to appear. Minutes later, they did.

  He watched as they stumbled to their Land Cruiser. The fact that security agents would get drunk with their protectee was both thoroughly unprofessional and thoroughly on-brand for Russia.

  Perhaps it had something to do with the camaraderie of being in a shit posting in a remote, bitterly harsh location, but that shouldn’t have mattered. They had made a major mistake and now they were going to pay.

  When security agent number two tilted his umbrella backward onto his shoulder, blocking any view of what was behind him, Harvath struck.

  He came out hard and fast, double-tapping both agents in the head. Follow-ups weren’t necessary, as they both collapsed to the ground. The Consul General, though, took Harvath by surprise.

  Spinning with an agility that belied his age and sobriety, he drew a small pistol and swung it toward him.

  Harvath reacted quickly and stepped off the line of attack, but in doing so, the uppercut he had launched missed its intended target—Anatoly Nemstov’s jaw.

  Instead, there was a crack as the edge of Harvath’s watch caught the Russian’s mouth, knocking two of his front teeth loose in a spray of blood.

  Before the Consul General could regroup, Harvath swung back around with his pistol, slamming the man in the side of the head, knocking him out cold.

  Popping the tailgate of the Land Cruiser, he yanked back the tarp. Then he dragged security agent number one over, followed by security agent number two.

  Even though he had been working out the entire time he’d been in Norway, getting two dead bodies, especially men of this size, up and into the cargo area was a serious struggle.

  One at a time, he pushed and heaved until he had them in and then he went for Nemstov.

  Using the belts and neckties from the dead security men, he hog-tied the Consul General like his life depended on it—because it did.

  Every rule in the book said you removed all threats before you transported a prisoner, but Harvath was more concerned about getting out of there before anyone saw them.

  Lifting Nemstov up, he dropped him onto the corpses of his bodyguards, covered them all with the tarp, and closed the tailgate. Then he walked around to the driver’s door, picked up the Consul General’s gun as well as the umbrella, and tossed them into the passenger-side footwell as he got behind the wheel.

  When Harvath hit the start button, he had to love the advancement in technology. Rather than looking through the pockets of the dead driver for his keys, he only needed to have him close enough for the sensor to pick up his fob.

  Before putting the big SUV in gear, he looked over his left shoulder. Despite the weather, both his window and the window behind him were still splattered with bits of blood and brain. It was going to take a lot of rain to wash them away. So, rather than draw attention to it as he drove through town, he simply lowered the windows and left them down.

  He exited the lot, heading back the way he had arrived, toward the heliport and the very edge of Barentsburg. But somewhere along the way he was going to have to find someplace private, someplace quiet and off the beaten path where he could interrogate his Russian prisoner.

  Then, remembering his flight in, he got an idea.

  CHAPTER 54

  The bouncing and jostling of the Land Cruiser must have eventually awakened the Consul General, because ten minutes after they went off-road he began yelling for help.

  Harvath let him scream. There was no one around to hear. The Russian could yell until his throat was raw. It wouldn’t do any good.

  When Harvath got to his destination, he killed the engine and walked around back.

  Popping the tailgate, he pulled back the tarp and found that the Consul General had flipped over onto his back. He looked like a snapping turtle, cursing so hard in Russian that his teeth were clacking.

  Harvath waited for his moment and, when the man opened his mouth wide enough, shoved his suppressor in as far as it would go.

  As Nemstov gagged, Harvath rolled him sideways and made sure he hadn’t palmed anything dangerous. Then, pulling his weapon out of the man’s mouth, he stood back and gave him another good tug, rolling him out of the truck and letting him drop onto the ground.

  The hog-tied Russian fell with a good thud. In fact, Harvath could have sworn that he heard a whoosh as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. But the weather and the wind being what they were, it was hard to tell.

  He looked out over the bleak landscape as Nemstov heaved for air and said, “This is not a safe area. Did you know a polar bear was spotted nearby a little while ago?”

  “Who are you?” the Consul General wheezed, looking up at him. “What do you want?”

  “Who I am doesn’t matter. What I want is to negotiate. So maybe we’re getting off on a bad foot. I want the Black Ice equipment.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Harvath shook his head. “I was worried you might say that. We really are getting off on the wrong foot. The only question is, right or left?”

  “What?” the Russian replied.

  Before he could say anything else, Harvath grabbed his right leg, aimed his suppressed pistol against his ankle, and pressed the trigger.

  Nemstov let out a bloodcurdling scream that could be heard above the wind and echoed back off the mountains like thunder.

  “Let’s try this again,” said Harvath. “I want the Black Ice equipment.”

  “I don’t have it. You son of a bitch,” the Russian moaned through his gritted teeth.

  Harvath moved to the man’s other ankle and replied, “With one foot out of commission, you’re on crutches. With both out, you’re in a wheelchair. What’s it going to be? Where is the equipment?”

  “You’re too late. It’s as good as gone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The handoff is already happening.”

  “How? You were supposed to wait for confirmation.”

  “From whom?” The Consul General groaned. “Sarov? You think his source was the only one we had at Vardø?”

  That was something Harvath hadn’t considered—that Russians would have a backup, someone in addition to Sarov’s source who could confirm whether or not the Chinese test had been a success.

  “Tell me where the equipment is.”

  “I already told you,” Nemstov insisted, “you’re too late.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  Pressing the trigger, Harvath sent a round through the man’s other ankle.

  The Consul General howled even louder this time, and it echoed even longer.

  “I will keep you alive and we can do this for hours,” said Harvath. “I promise you it only gets more painful. Or you can talk to me, tell me what I want to know, and I will drop you at the hospital and disappear forever. The choice is up to you.”

  The Russian clamped his jaw shut and refused to answer.

  “Tell me about your portion of the test. Where did it take place? Who were you with?”

  He gave the man a second to answer, and when he didn’t, he shoved the suppressor right in his ass.

  “Give me an answer right now, Anatoly, or you’ll be shitting via a colostomy bag for the rest of your life. I don’t think Mother Russia gives out medals for that.”

  “Wait! Wait!” Nemstov implored. “Ny-Ålesund. It happened in Ny-Ålesund.”

  “And who were you with?”

  “The Chinese have a military operative working out of their research station. A man named Wen Ying. He is posing as a scientist.”

  “Describe him to me,” Harvath demanded.

  “He’s different than the other scientists. He’s very tall. Almost six feet, which is unusual for the Chinese. He’s lean and very fit.”

  “Where exactly did the test take place? At their research station?
”

  Nemstov shook his head. “Nearby. An old satellite ground station… once used by the European Space Agency’s tracking network to provide radio tracking and telemetry for its original, low-Earth-orbit satellites.”

  “What did the Black Ice equipment look like?”

  “It was housed in a gray, hard-sided, weatherized case about the size of a military footlocker. It had handles on the sides for carrying and had multiple rubber-covered ports for cables.”

  “How was it operated?”

  “With a ruggedized laptop. The software on it told the box what to relay to the Chinese satellite. That’s all I know,” the Consul General insisted. “I’m not a scientist.”

  “You were supposed to bring the equipment back to Moscow,” said Harvath. “It was your responsibility. What happened?”

  “Yes, I was supposed to bring the equipment back, but the Kremlin changed its mind. It was deemed too sensitive. They decided to send a team in to pick it up.”

  “What kind of team?”

  “Spetsnaz—Russian Special Forces.”

  “By what means?”

  “They were going to come in via water, launched from one of our submarines.”

  “When?”

  “With the tide,” said Nemstov. “Like I said, you’re already too late.”

  “Where are they landing?” Harvath demanded. “Where are they picking up the equipment?”

  “I don’t know. As soon as it was decided it wouldn’t be transferred to me, I was cut off. My contact with Ying was handed over to the Spetsnaz commander. That’s all I know. Everything.”

  Harvath believed him.

  Unscrewing the suppressor from his Beretta, he slipped it into his left coat pocket and then slipped the pistol into his right.

  “You have to untie me and get me to the hospital,” the Consul General begged.

  Harvath ignored him as he patted down the corpses and stripped them of their weapons.

  “Help me!” the Russian wailed, lying on his belly in the rain. “I told you what you wanted to know.”

  With both of the dead security agents denuded of weapons, Harvath dragged each one of them out of the Land Cruiser and let them drop almost on top of Nemstov. Then he bent to untie him.