by Brad Thor
In their minds, and in the mind of their commander, it was a relatively simple operation. It was why only two of them had been dispatched. The joke, as they had planned their mission on board the submarine, was that the U.S. Navy SEALs would have sent two or three times as many men.
The Spetsnaz had huge egos. It was a wonder they could squeeze their swelled heads through the opening and climb down the ladder at all.
Both men were carrying short-barreled AKS-74U carbines, also known as a “Krinks,” and 9mm GSh-18 pistols with rounds designed to pierce body armor. If push came to shoot, they’d be fierce opponents in a gunfight—especially one that happened in close quarters, such as in an ice cave.
* * *
Harvath had parked the Yellow River Station’s utility truck behind one of the buildings that serviced the airfield and dragged Wen Ying out of the backseat.
He had replaced the gag and tied the man’s hands behind his back. But because he needed him to walk in order to lead him to the entrance of the cave, he hadn’t bound his legs.
Getting Ying’s six-foot frame down the ladder had been a pain in the ass—matched only by the danger of Harvath following, gun in hand, then making sure the man remained facedown on the cave floor and didn’t try anything stupid. Luckily, he hadn’t.
Just before they had dropped into the cave, Harvath had seen the Russians arrive. He wasn’t surprised to see they had sent only two men. That was entirely in keeping with the Spetsnaz ethos. He was simply grateful that he and Ying had arrived before them.
That said, it wasn’t as if they had tons of time on their hands. In fact, they had barely enough to get down the hole and hide themselves before the Russians made entry.
Harvath had brought a small jar of hydrofluoric acid with him—enough to push the Chinese operative over the two-and-a-half-percent exposure limit—and with the few moments they had, he made it very clear what would happen to Ying if he didn’t cooperate.
Then they hid themselves and waited for the Spetsnaz soldiers to climb down the ladder and into the cave.
Harvath had hoped that they’d beat the Russians by enough time to grab the equipment and be gone before they arrived. Now he was going to have to go to Plan B. What plan B was, however, he hadn’t completely decided.
Carrying a laptop straight up a twenty-foot ladder was no problem. Hauling out a box the size of an extra-large beer cooler—weighing God only knew how much—was something else entirely.
The smart play was to make that the Russians’ problem. Let them waste their sweat and muscle bringing it to the surface and then take everything from them. Smoke them both and drop them down the cave entrance.
His only problem was Ying. He either had to knock him out again or hog-tie him and hope he didn’t get free during the time it took to kill the Russians. He couldn’t keep an eye on the Chinese operative and take out the Spetsnaz operatives at the same time.
The best option was to hog-tie Ying. If Harvath knocked him out, there was no telling how long it would be until the man regained consciousness. He hadn’t brought any ammonia to revive him, and there was no way he was carrying him straight up twenty feet of ladder.
Just behind where the equipment was stacked, the cavern took a dogleg to the right. That was where Harvath decided to take cover.
He had Ying lie facedown again on his stomach. Next, he placed the jar of acid under his chin and up against his throat. Then he placed his boot at the base of the man’s skull. If the operative tried anything at all, it would take only a quick downward stomp to break the glass and end the man’s life.
As the Russians came down the ladder, Harvath placed his injured duct-taped index finger against his lips and softly warned, “Shhhh.”
Ying didn’t move.
The soldiers approached the equipment and slung their Krinks. They might as well have been at the liquor store, picking up cases of beer for the weekend.
After IDing the case with the laptop as well as the weatherized box with the rest of the equipment, they began moving it all down the cavern toward the entrance.
Then Ying lashed out with his foot, kicking the wall, and both men froze.
Harvath hesitated, not wanting to kill the Chinese operative if he didn’t have to, but then the man did it again. And again. And again. He was warning the Russians.
This time Harvath didn’t hesitate. He stepped hard on the back of the man’s head, causing the glass jar under his chin to break, splashing him with acid.
As he screamed from behind his gag and the Spetsnaz soldiers went for their weapons, Harvath stepped out from where he was hiding, raised the twelve-gauge shotgun he had taken from the Yellow River Station, and began firing.
With each blast of 00 buckshot meant to take down a polar bear, he racked the weapon and fired again.
He kept going, cutting the Russians to ribbons, peppering bloody bits and pieces of them across the ice cave’s walls.
All told, it was one of the most disturbing scenes he had ever left behind. A “Picasso,” as it was known in the business.
The message to Beijing and Moscow would be unmistakable. You fuck with the United States at your peril.
CHAPTER 64
The key was to keep the utility truck out of sight, at least until morning. Not a hard thing to do during a storm.
Only the Chinese scientists would miss it—and they were all enjoying Friday night at the mess hall. What’s more, as long as Wen Ying was unaccounted for, they would figure the 4x4 was with him.
Getting the laptop out of the ice cavern had, as predicted, been a piece of cake. The other piece of equipment, however, had been a ton of work. By the time Harvath arrived at the mess hall, he had more than earned a celebratory beer.
Wearing AWIPEV coveralls, he wasn’t paid any undue attention, although a couple of scientists asked him if he was new, to which he replied, “Just filling in for a few days.”
After Harvath paid for his beer, he went to the quiet area where the computers were and attempted to make contact with Nicholas. They were on an unsecure system and spoke in shared codes and roundabout language.
The little man was overjoyed to hear that Harvath was all right and that his mission had been a success. He also had a bit of good news of his own. Mercer had found a captain of a fishing trawler who couldn’t make it back to Kirkenes and had been forced to wait out the storm in Longyearbyen. The vessel could be at Ny-Ålesund harbor at five a.m. Was Harvath interested?
He absolutely was interested. With everything that had gone down, that was the last piece of the puzzle he needed to solve—how to get home. Now that it was figured out, he could tick off the next thing on his list.
Finishing his beer, he left the mess hall, reclaimed his backpack from its hiding place, and walked over to the infirmary.
He was delighted to see that not only was Oleg doing well and hadn’t been eaten by the polar bear, but that Pavel had regained consciousness and, other than a bump to the head and a bad fracture of his leg, was expected to make a full recovery.
Grabbing two paper towels from the dispenser near their sink, he divided up the remaining cash in his pack, wrapped up each portion, and handed them over.
“It’s too much,” Pavel insisted yet again. “More than we agreed on.”
“Take it,” said Harvath. “I’m sorry about the helicopter.”
“The company has insurance,” Oleg replied. “It was very old helicopter.”
Pavel nodded. “They want to take our official statements in Longyearbyen. A plane will be here tomorrow afternoon. Two p.m. Will you be coming with us?”
“Of course I will,” Harvath lied, taking no pleasure in it. “I will see you then.”
For all the obvious reasons, he couldn’t be connected to Svalbard or anything that had happened there. Once Sølvi had a full readout on everything that had transpired, his hope was that the Norwegian Intelligence Service, along with a little help from Holidae at the CIA’s Oslo station, could smooth things out.<
br />
He said goodbye to the men and walked over to AWIPEV’s little blue house, where he was offered a pullout couch. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so well. In fact, had it not been for the small alarm clock they had provided, he might have slept for days.
After brewing a cup of drip coffee, he made it down to the dock with the Black Ice equipment just as the Kirkenes-based Senja motored into the harbor.
The boat’s weathered captain, with his stubby pipe, navy blue peacoat, and wool hat, was a true pro. He glided effortlessly up to the pier and didn’t even bother tying off. He waited just long enough for Harvath to load his gear and hop aboard. The man had a hold full of fresh catch and he was anxious to get back home.
Harvath was looking forward to the cruise. The storm had cleared, the skies were bright, and he had five hundred nautical miles to do nothing but watch the water slip past and let his mind wander.
* * *
When they finally arrived in Kirkenes, Philip Mercer was standing on the dock. Behind him were Sloane and Chase.
As the young operatives unloaded the Black Ice equipment and carried everything up to their SUV, Harvath thanked the captain and spent a few minutes walking and talking with his friend, the ex–CIA man.
“The names from Sarov and Nemstov—the Russian Intelligence assets at Vardø—were a huge get,” said Mercer. “In fact, you’ll love this. When the Norwegians moved in to arrest them, one of them ran. My stepson’s best friend, Arne—”
“The security guard?” Harvath interrupted.
“The very same. Well, when the one suspect bolted, Arne pepper-sprayed him in the parking lot, knocked him down, and took him into custody. He’s being promoted to deputy chief of security.”
Harvath chuckled. “Good for him.”
“I heard you had it rough up there.”
“Let’s just say you’re not wrong about Svalbard. If I never see it again, it will be too soon.”
“Did the capabilities kit come in handy?”
“Very,” said Harvath, handing over his backpack.
“What’s this?” asked Mercer.
“It’s what’s left of the kit.”
“I told you that you had to put it back.”
Harvath smiled. “Technically, you told me I had to ‘return’ it. That’s what I’m doing—returning it to you.”
“You have no idea what a pain in the ass it’s going to be to figure out how to sneak all this stuff back up there.”
“I have every faith in you. By the way, I’m not charging you for bringing your Beretta back from the dead, as well as that GPS unit.”
Mercer shook his head and grinned. “So what now?”
Harvath watched as the captain came toward him with a large Styrofoam box stuffed with ice and king crab. “Now I head back to Oslo.”
“And Sølvi.”
He nodded, and a smile swept across his face. “And Sølvi.”
CHAPTER 65
OSLO
THREE DAYS LATER
“You’re not going to do something crazy like propose, are you?” asked Harvath.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sølvi replied, smiling.
“Then why am I wearing a suit and tie? And why are you not telling me where we’re going?”
“Because it’s a top secret operation.”
“Which starts at the rooftop restaurant of The Thief hotel?”
“Just shut up and do as you’re told,” she ordered.
Harvath grinned. She was totally going to propose to him. He didn’t know how he felt about it, however. Things had moved pretty fast between them. But if this was what she wanted, he wanted it too. He was comfortable with it. His answer would be yes.
As far as locations went, The Thief made sense. It was where he had turned up out of nowhere a couple of months ago to surprise her and to tell her that he wanted them to spend the summer together. If they were going to seal an even deeper commitment to one another, The Thief was the place to do it.
When they stepped out of the elevator and onto the outdoor terrace, the weather was perfect. Blue skies and bright sunshine. Summer in Oslo appeared to be making a valiant last stand.
Walking back to their usual table, Harvath was surprised to see someone already sitting there—Holidae Hayes.
Like Sølvi, she was also dressed to the nines. She had a big smile on her face and an even bigger glass of champagne in her hand. What the hell was going on?
The women greeted each other with kisses. Harvath gave Holidae a hug as he sat down.
“Congratulations,” the CIA station chief said as she handed him a shirt-size box with a ribbon around it.
“Isn’t this a little premature?” he asked. “Sølvi hasn’t even popped the question yet.”
“You’re an idiot,” Holidae asserted. “Open it.”
Harvath did. Separating the tissue paper, he pulled out a copy of Aftenposten, one of the Norwegian daily newspapers.
He glanced up at her. “Isn’t a toaster or a blender a more traditional gift?”
Hayes shook her head. “Just beneath the fold, genius.”
Harvath scanned down until he found it. His Norwegian being what it was, all he could make out was the name Astrid Jensen and what looked like the words sex trafficking.
“You’re welcome,” the CIA woman replied.
“You got her busted for sex trafficking? That’s awesome. Illegal as hell and kind of hard to believe, but awesome.”
“Always making jokes,” said Sølvi, taking the newspaper from him and reading the article.
“I did exactly what I told you I was going to do,” Holidae explained. “I gave her a bigger headline. In exchange for forgetting about you, she is able to take credit for helping take down one of the biggest sex trafficking rings in Norwegian history.”
“Is this true?” Sølvi asked, pointing to the paper. “The young girls were taken from refugee camps and tricked into believing they were being resettled?”
Holidae nodded. “There were some very bad people behind this. The CIA had information, as well as a witness who was seeking asylum in Norway, that it thought could be helpful to the Norwegian Police. My boss agreed to allow everything to flow through Jensen’s office.”
Harvath looked at her and smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So we’re celebrating, then. You’ve already got champagne. Why don’t I order us a bottle?”
“We can each have a glass. For now,” Sølvi replied.
“Why?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
“He doesn’t know?” Holidae asked.
Sølvi shook her head. “Sometimes secrets are a good thing. They make life a little more exciting.”
“This secret definitely will,” the CIA woman agreed.
“This isn’t a proposal,” Harvath said, studying them both. “And it isn’t a going-away party, because I don’t think we could throw a better one than we did two nights ago out at the cottage.”
“It was an amazing party,” said Sølvi. “The best of the summer. And how incredible was it that everyone could be there?”
“What was incredible,” Holidae added, “was that king crab. We need to make sure that all of your assignments end in a great food or wine region.”
Harvath brought the topic of conversation back around to his question. “So, we all get one glass of champagne. And then what?”
“And then you’ll see.” Sølvi smiled as she beckoned the waitress over.
* * *
As they sat enjoying champagne and the best views in town over the Oslo fjord, Harvath regaled the two ladies with stories of his assignment. From polar bears to sailing home on a fishing trawler, it was like something out of a movie or an old adventure novel.
When the appointed time came, Sølvi led the party downstairs to the lobby, where a six-door, twenty-foot-long Audi A8 L extended limousine was waiting for them.
Once they were ensconced in the supple leather inte
rior, and the driver had returned to his position behind the wheel, they pulled gently away from the hotel.
Harvath knew better than to ask any more questions about where they were going. Instead, he looked at Sølvi and remarked quietly to himself about how beautiful she was. Seeing her all dressed up, regardless of what they were about to do, took his breath away.
She was still every inch the stunning fashion model and could still be gracing magazine covers today if she wanted to. The fact that she didn’t want to, that she preferred serving her country—especially from within the cutthroat world of intelligence and espionage—made him love her all the more. She was one in a million, and he, more than anyone else, appreciated how rare that was. The fact that she wanted to be with him, proposal or no proposal, made everything else in his life worth it. Determination over distance. No matter what happened, no matter what the world threw at them, he was going to make this work.
The drive through the center of town provided no clues as to what their ultimate destination was. They could be headed anywhere.
But then the limo turned onto a private paved drive. It was blocked by tall iron gates and machine-gun-toting police officers.
As the vehicle neared, the guards stood back, opened the gates, and waved them through. They were now on the grounds of the Norwegian Royal Palace, and Harvath was beginning to grow even more suspicious.
“Sølvi?” he asked. “Do you want to tell me what we’re doing here?”
“Nope,” the woman responded.
He then looked at Holidae, who shrugged her shoulders and feigned not having a clue in the world. For one of the CIA’s best, she was a terrible liar.
A footman met them at a discreet side entrance, well out of view of photographers who liked to capture the comings and goings of royal visitors.
Inside, a member of the palace staff took over and led them to an ornate study and asked them to wait before stepping back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
“Do we sit?” asked Harvath, pointing at the seating area near the grand fireplace.
