Spymaster

by Brad Thor

  * * *

  KALININGRAD

  Colonel Oleg Tretyakov needed to get out of his office. It was stifling—too many people, too many telephones ringing. He needed to think.

  He had relocated to Kaliningrad—the Russian exclave along the Baltic—twenty-four months ago in preparation for the invasion of neighboring Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia.

  Of course, no one in his government would dare refer to it as an invasion. They were taking back territory they saw as rightfully theirs. Publicly, they planned on calling it a “peacekeeping” mission aimed at protecting “ethnic” Russians. It was a dubious term at best, as most of Central Europe was, until the collapse of the Soviet Union in the 1990s, under Russian control and thereby still contained people of Russian lineage, or “ethnic” Russians.

  The plan was simple and had worked for Russia before—foment dissent, encourage uprisings, and use their permanent position on the Security Council to defeat any vote for UN peacekeepers to be sent in.

  Instead, Russia would magnanimously offer to send in Russian Special Forces soldiers who would provide “security” until referendums could be held and political solutions arrived at.

  Of course the referendums would be bogus, would break in Russia’s favor, and the Russian government would use the “democratic” results to justify officially annexing the Baltic States.

  To help create an environment of chaos, local intelligence assets—as well as “useful idiots”—were being paid, trained, and directed to create as much anarchy as possible. Their efforts were being amplified by legions of online trolls, armies of Internet bots, and hordes of fake news sites—all of which were run out of a secret facility in the Russian city of St. Petersburg, called the Internet Research Agency.

  A GRU cyberespionage group called Fancy Bear rounded everything out. Fancy Bear hacked sensitive information and passed it on to the Internet Research Agency. The Internet Research Agency then used the information to create yet more fake news stories. Fellow travellers, also known as “fifth columns,” in the targeted countries acted like repeater stations, boosting anything and everything the Internet Research Agency and Fancy Bear put out.

  This basket of espionage and propaganda tactics was called “special,” or “hybrid” warfare, and the Russians were masters of it. By the time NATO could realize what had happened, or could even respond, the Baltic States would already be lost. Tretyakov’s job, though, was to make sure that if NATO did respond, that response would be as weak and ineffective as possible.

  This meant knowing as much as possible about NATO’s operations. To do that, he had developed a vast network of spies—both inside and outside of the organization.

  The creation of the PRF anti-NATO terror organization had been his idea—and its cells hadn’t been limited to just NATO countries. Cells had been created not only in nations that were currently considering membership, but in ones that might be sympathetic to NATO and provide staging to NATO forces or other strategic military support.

  Moscow considered it a clever plan. Diverting attention away from any Russian involvement by making the world believe the PRF was a genuine grassroots uprising across NATO was brilliant.

  There had been no equivocation. Moscow had made it crystal clear that his mission was of critical importance. And that importance was driven home by the size of his budget. In his decades in military intelligence, he had never seen anything like it.

  But with exceptional responsibility came exceptional accountability. News had broken about Norway. His superiors back at headquarters were not happy. They wanted a report. How was that PRF cell discovered? Did any of its members survive? Was there anything linking them to Russia? What did the Norwegian authorities know? What was the status of the other cells? What changes did he plan to make?

  They were overthinking it—reacting, instead of acting. The truth was, he didn’t plan on changing anything. Not without a good, solid reason. The rest of the cells were still in place and ready.

  He didn’t know how the Norwegian cell had been uncovered. He was just as confused and angry as his superiors were.

  Putting that cell together had taken a tremendous amount of work. Getting them into positions where they could be hired to service equipment in those caves had taken even more work. It had been a good plan, a solid plan.

  Something, though, had gone wrong. Someone had talked, or had slipped up somehow. And while the GRU had plenty of spies across Norway, the information was slow in coming in.

  Only a small piece of intelligence had made its way to him so far. At the last minute, just before the raid on the cell had been conducted, two investigators from NATO had been added to the assault team.

  His source didn’t have any more information than that, but he was working on it.

  Tretyakov was not surprised. There had been three attacks on NATO personnel up to this point. Per his instructions, the People’s Revolutionary Front had taken credit for each one. He wanted NATO chasing the organization down, wasting its time and energy—racking up bad press at every possible turn. What he needed to be careful about, though, was NATO making too much progress too quickly.

  In the case of Norway, he had many questions. How had the authorities uncovered the cell? Had they done it on their own? Did they have help? And if they did have help, where had that help come from? NATO? The Americans? Finally, was there anything in Norway that could lead to the other PRF cells that had not yet been deployed?

  There were countless moving parts, but that’s where Tretyakov excelled. His brain was incredibly flexible and its gears moved smoothly in concert with each other. That was until now, which was why he needed to escape the cacophony of his office.

  Exiting the building, he walked down the broad Leninskiy Prospekt toward the Pregolya River.

  It was cold. The sky overhead steel-gray. Snow was predicted soon. He turned the collar of his leather jacket up against the chill.

  As he moved down the sidewalk, his dark, narrow eyes swept from side to side, taking everything in. He had been in the intelligence game for decades and there were certain habits that you never lost—even on your home turf.

  He kept his dark, receding hair cut short—not military short, but rather businessman short. When he traveled from country to country on a range of different passports, businessman was his preferred cover.

  For a man of fifty-two, he was in decent shape. He ran and did calisthenics almost daily.

  Like most Russians he was a drinker. But unlike so many of his countrymen, he didn’t drink to excess.

  He rarely drank in public and almost never with his colleagues or subordinates—unless he was trying to get one of them drunk, so he could squeeze information out of them.

  When he drank, it was solely to unwind, and he always knew when he’d had enough.

  Alcoholism was rampant in the Russian military. It was such a problem that soldiers’ field rations even included small bottles of vodka.

  He saw it within the GRU as well. Empty bottles could be found on windowsills and toilet tanks in every men’s room. No doubt many full or half-full bottles were hidden away in desk drawers throughout the building as well. It was a national sickness—the means by which the masses numbed themselves while the politicians and oligarchs avoided having to answer for the people’s shitty existence.

  Russia was better than this. His countrymen had lost their pride. The USSR had been a global superpower. It had demanded respect on the world stage. It had launched the first earth-orbiting satellite, had put the first man into space, as well as the first modular space station. It had introduced the world’s first regional jet and had invented the first artificial heart. It had carried out the first heart transplant, the first lung transplant, and the first liver transplant. It had grown to be the world’s second-largest overall economy.

  As far as Tretyakov was concerned, Russia would not only be great again, it would be united again. And for that to happen, every Russian had to do his or her part. Tretya
kov was committed to doing his.

  Taking the long way around, he crossed the short Honeymoon Bridge where newlyweds came for photos and to fasten a padlock to the railing symbolizing their undying love.

  Tretyakov was no romantic. He was a realist and found the practice ridiculous. There had to be thousands of rusting locks along both sides of the bridge. He could only imagine the weight it added. It was a trend he saw repeated throughout cities in Russia and across Europe.

  Before World War II, the city of Kaliningrad had been the German city of Königsberg. The Soviets annexed what was left of it in 1945, and gave it its new name in 1946.

  The twenty-five-acre island on the other side of Honeymoon Bridge was known as Kneiphof Island. Home to Königsberg Cathedral, it was also the final resting place of philosopher Immanuel Kant.

  Tretyakov had always found the island’s walking paths, as well as its quiet cathedral, good places to collect his thoughts. The fact that Kant was entombed there was a bonus. Marxism, the philosophy of the Soviet Union, was built upon Kant’s work, which only made it feel more special.

  Crossing the bridge, a sense of calm usually befell him—as if magically, his troubles couldn’t follow him onto the island. Today, though, that wasn’t the case.

  With each step he had taken since leaving his office, his problems, like the locks, had only weighed heavier upon him. In addition to wanting a full report, his superiors were considering moving up his timetable. They were concerned over two pieces of intelligence that had recently come in.

  One was about an odd meeting that was observed at the United Nations in New York City. It had involved the U.S. Ambassador, as well as the Ambassadors to Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. No one knew precisely what to make of it, until another piece of intelligence had come in.

  A small U.S. military convoy, leaving Poland for the very same Baltic nations, had been robbed. Allegedly, the cargo that had been stolen included upgrade kits for land-based, incredibly hard to defeat Gryphon cruise missiles. These were the same missiles that had been banned under a previous treaty between Russia and the United States. None of them should have existed, much less have been in Europe.

  Even more troubling was the fact that Gryphon missiles were capable of carrying nuclear warheads. According to one of their Polish spies, a covert Polish intelligence team had been tasked with trying to recover the stolen upgrade kits. If the intelligence was accurate, and he had no reason to doubt it, the missiles represented a significant obstacle to the invasion. It was no wonder his superiors were nervous. Their entire calculus could very well be in jeopardy.

  But if they were thinking of beating the upgraded missiles to the battlefield by accelerating his timetable, such a move wasn’t without risk. It was when one sped up operations that mistakes happened—often deadly mistakes—and he felt certain that would be the case here. It was a recipe for potential disaster.

  Nevertheless, he was a solider. It was his job to follow orders, not question them—no matter how poorly conceived he believed them to be. If headquarters wanted to accelerate the timeline, he would do what they commanded.

  There would be consequences, though, of that he was sure. And he had a pretty good idea of where some of the worst might take place.

  Removing his encrypted cell phone, he began to compose a message. The cell in Sweden needed to be warned.

  CHAPTER 18

  * * *

  BRUSSELS SOUTH AIRPORT, BELGIUM

  The prospect of flying back to Scandinavia, especially on another military transport, wasn’t very appealing to Jasinski. On the plus side, though, at least the flight would be short, less than two hours.

  After thanking Nicholas for lunch, Harvath had driven her back to SHAPE. On the way, she had asked again why they were going to Gotland. Harvath told her he would explain once they were in the air. Dropping her at the front gate, he instructed her to pack a bag and meet him at Brussels South Airport at 7:00 p.m.

  When she arrived at the address he had given her, she was shown through the lobby of a fixed-base operator and escorted outside. There, standing on the tarmac beside a sleek white business jet with gray pinstriping, was Harvath. He had his back to her and was sipping from a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee as he admired the aircraft.

  “Nice ride,” she shouted, loud enough to be heard over a commercial aircraft taking off nearby. “Gulfstream G650?”

  Harvath was impressed. “G650-ER,” he clarified, turning to greet her. “Extended-range package. Seven thousand five hundred nautical miles. Sleeps ten, can travel at Mach .90, has a kick-ass espresso maker and comes with cup holders and free Wi-Fi.”

  “How’d you swing this?”

  “Like I said—if it flies, floats, or fights—I’m your guy.”

  “Apparently,” Jasinski agreed, as the copilot approached, politely took her bag, and added it to a stack of much bigger luggage near the tail. Much of it was hard-sided, plastic Storm cases. She could only imagine what was inside. She doubted they were full of toothpaste, razorblades, and clean underwear.

  Looking back at Harvath, she asked, “How long are we planning on being away?”

  “Those belong to the rest of the team.”

  “Team?”

  “They’re already on board. I’ll introduce you.”

  Harvath led the way up the airstairs and into the cabin of the G650-ER. The first thing she noticed was how luxurious it was. The white leather seats were trimmed with gray piping and had individual controls for heating and cooling. The tables were crafted from highly polished Makassar ebony veneers. Plush gray carpeting with a swirling black design ran end to end. The fixtures were polished nickel. It even had the new-plane smell.

  Scattered throughout the cabin, in various stages of shoes off, feet up relaxation, were four men and one woman who made up the “team.”

  Leaning in close to her, Harvath confided, “They still refuse to wear nametags so I’m probably going to get a few of these wrong.” Straightening up, he pointed as he worked his way down the aisle and said, “You’ve already met Gage, Morrison, and Nicholas, who are holding down the fort back at HQ, so let me introduce the rest of the team. Everyone, this is Monika Jasinski. Monika, this is, Gimpy, Grumpy, Dopey, Drippy, and Sparkle.”

  Each of the passengers held up a middle finger in response. Some of them held up two.

  “Be especially nice to Sparkle,” Harvath added. “The entire cabin—lights, music, temperature—runs on an app and she’s the only one who has been able to figure it out.”

  Rolling her eyes, the woman Harvath had identified as Sparkle stood up, came forward, and introduced herself. “Nice to meet you, Monika, I’m Sloane Ashby.”

  She was a very attractive woman. In her late twenties, she had blond hair, smoky gray eyes, and distinctly high cheekbones.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Monika said, shaking Sloane’s hand.

  “If you haven’t figured it out yet, Harvath’s superpower is being a smartass.”

  “It’s pronounced jackass!” someone yelled from the back.

  Sloane chuckled and continued. “So, like I said, I’m Sloane. Let me introduce you to everyone else.”

  Gesturing with her hands as if she was giving an airplane safety demonstration, she pointed to each team member and gave their real name and background as they walked down the aisle. Each stood and politely shook her hand as they were introduced.

  “First up,” said Sloane. “Mike Haney, USMC Force Recon.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the six-foot-tall, forty-year-old Marin, California, native said.

  “Next, Tim Barton, US Navy SEALs, DEVGRU.”

  The stocky fireplug of a man was in his early thirties. Despite only standing about five-foot-six, he looked tough as hell. He had reddish blond hair and a full beard to match.

  “Then we have Tyler Staelin, Combat Applications Group, or simply CAG. Which used to be called Delta Force, but is still referred to as the Unit. I think. I can’t be sure. There may ha
ve already been another name change since we got on the plane.”

  The thirty-nine-year-old from downstate Illinois smiled as he shook her hand. He stood five-foot-ten and had a book on the table in front of his seat called Beirut Rules by Fred Burton.

  “I’ve heard of that book,” said Jasinski. “Is it any good?”

  “That bearded refrigerator you met earlier today gave it to me,” he replied. “I’m only a couple of chapters in, but so far it’s excellent.”

  “I’ll make sure to add it to my list. Thank you.”

  Staelin smiled again and sat back down as Sloane introduced Monika to the plane’s final passenger.

  “And last but not least,” she said, “we have Chase Palmer, also of Combat Applications Group, Delta Force, or whatever they’re calling themselves over the next half hour.”

  “You forgot handsome,” Palmer stated, his voice identifying him as the one who had called Harvath a jackass.

  He was in his early thirties and actually looked so similar to Harvath that the two could have passed for brothers.

  “And what’s your background?” Jasinski asked, once Sloane Ashby had finished the introductions.

  “U.S. Army, THTH,” she replied.

  “THTH?”

  “Too Hot To Handle,” Sloane explained. “The first soldier to ever be pulled from combat for being too damn good at her job.”

  “You mean killing as many of the enemy as possible?”

  “That’s what I thought I had signed up for, but being a woman in a—”

  “Long story,” Harvath said, peeling Jasinski away from Sloane and steering her toward a seat near his up front. “Do you want anything before we take off?”

  “Can I get a water?”

  “Sure.”

  Walking to the rear of the cabin, he pulled a bottle from the galley fridge, prepared another espresso, and returned as the jet began to taxi to the runway.

  “Here you go,” he said as he handed the water to her.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  Sitting down across from her, he placed his espresso atop the table between their seats and asked to see her cell phone.