by Brad Thor
You got one really good chance in life and she’d had hers. It had been wonderful, while it lasted. That kind of person didn’t come around twice. She consoled herself with the thought that at least she had her work.
Concentrating on the scene unfolding outside, the two watched as Harvath descended the airstairs and approached the man in the leather coat flanked by the pair of police officers.
Despite the jokes that had been made at Harvath’s expense, suddenly the situation didn’t seem funny anymore.
CHAPTER 21
* * *
Halogen lights illuminated the revetment area. The man in the leather coat had stepped away from the uniformed officers and was making his way forward. He met Harvath halfway across the tarmac. Removing a set of credentials, he held them up and asked, “Pratar du svenska?” Do you speak Swedish?
Harvath shook his head. “English.”
The majority of Swedes were bilingual, and the man seamlessly switched over. “My name is Chief Inspector Anders Nyström. Swedish Police, Gotland.”
Nyström was thin, like a distance runner, and stood about five-foot-eight. He had a head of short blond hair and a closely cropped blond beard—both shot through with streaks of gray. He wore a trendy pair of glasses, behind which a pair of green eyes took everything in. On his right wrist was a large digital watch.
Harvath knew that in any encounter with law enforcement, the first test was the attitude test. If you failed the attitude test, everything went downhill from there.
Smiling, he extended his hand and replied, “Nice to meet you. Is everything okay?”
“That depends,” said Nyström. “May I ask your name, please?”
Harvath didn’t want to give this guy anything. The man in the hat had not only failed to meet their plane, but had also failed to answer his phone. Something was wrong. And until Harvath knew what was going on, he was going to be very careful about what he revealed. “My name is Stephen Hall.”
The Hall alias was one Harvath had created in honor of a courageous OSS member who had been murdered by the Nazis.
“May I see some identification, please?” the Chief Inspector requested.
“I’m sorry,” said Harvath. “Did we come in on the wrong runway or something?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Having come from Belgium to Sweden, this was an inter European Union flight. That meant no border controls, passport checks, or customs inspections. Being met by national police like this was highly unusual.
Harvath removed his own set of credentials, which had been fabricated for him back in Virginia, and showed them to the officer.
“NATO,” the man remarked as he examined them. “Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe. Interesting. What is your purpose in Sweden?”
“I collect ABBA memorabilia.”
The joke made the Chief Inspector chuckle. “I see.”
“Can you please tell me what this is all about? You’re obviously here for a reason,” Harvath said.
“I was hoping you could tell me. There was a car accident tonight. The driver was carrying a piece of notebook paper with the Visby airport code, a time of arrival, and the tail number for your aircraft. I assume the driver was on his way here to meet you.”
A bad feeling began to build in the pit of Harvath’s stomach. “Is the driver okay?”
“Unfortunately, no. He was killed in the accident.”
“Have you identified him?”
Nyström nodded.
“And?” asked Harvath.
“First, please tell me. Were you expecting someone to meet you here tonight, and if so, whom? Their name.”
“Lars Lund,” said Harvath, the feeling in his stomach climbing into his throat.
“I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Lund died this evening as a result of the injuries he suffered.”
Harvath masked his feelings. He was highly skeptical of car accidents, especially when they involved skilled intelligence operatives in the middle of assignments. He felt the same way about plane crashes and hit-and-runs.
Experienced people in the espionage game tended to be very careful. As a rule, they checked and then double-checked everything. They didn’t take unnecessary risks.
When they did end up the victim of an “accident,” foul play always had to be considered. “What can you tell me about it?” Harvath asked.
“From what we can surmise, Mr. Lund was traveling at a high rate of speed and lost control,” said the officer. “Is there a reason why he may have been in such a hurry?”
Harvath shrugged. “None that I can think of.”
“Exactly why was Mr. Lund coming to meet you?”
“He was supposed to have been our host.”
“Host for what?” asked Nyström.
“Mr. Lund worked for the Swedish Defense Force back in Stockholm. We were going to tour the island with him and discuss logistics for an upcoming multilateral training exercise.”
Harvath knew that Swedish authorities, particularly those on Gotland, were alert to potential Russian infiltration. At the same time, they had also become increasingly accustomed to military training exercises with NATO. That meant the closer he stuck to the truth of why he and his team were here, the less chance their presence would raise any alarm.
“Can you tell me more about this exercise?” the Chief Inspector inquired.
“Unfortunately, not without approval from higher up. What I can say is that it’s an unannounced drill designed to test joint readiness. Participants, including the garrison here on Gotland, would be given a scenario and then be graded on how quickly they mobilized and how well they responded.”
“So the exercise is a secret?”
“That’s a good word for it, but I think surprise would be more accurate. By surprising them and not giving them time to prepare, we’re better able to measure how they would react in real life.”
Nyström seemed to buy it, and handed Harvath his credentials back. “Should I not alert the garrison commander about claiming the body then?” he asked.
Harvath had to think quickly. “That should probably be up to the Swedish armed forces. It’s their choice if they want to inform the garrison commander or not. They might decide to send someone from Stockholm to quietly claim the body.”
“Indeed,” replied the Chief Inspector. “Speaking of which, did you know Mr. Lund personally?”
“I did.”
“As he’s from the mainland, we don’t have anyone on Gotland who can confirm his identity. Would you be willing to come with me to the hospital?”
“Now?”
“Yes,” said Nyström. “If it is not too much trouble.”
“Of course,” replied Harvath. “Give me a couple of minutes to inform my colleagues inside the plane about what has happened.”
“Absolutely. Take your time.”
• • •
“What’s the story, boss?” Haney asked, as Harvath came back aboard the aircraft.
The team had all assembled up front as they watched the conversation unfolding on the tarmac.
“Allegedly,” said Harvath, “the man in the hat was involved in a car accident tonight. According to the police, he died of injuries sustained in the crash.”
A silence fell over the plane.
“They have asked me to go to the hospital with them and identify the body.”
“Bad idea,” stated Staelin.
“Agreed,” replied Chase. “On the way to meet us, the man in the hat dies in a car crash? Now three strangers show up and want you to drive off someplace with them? How do we even know they’re real cops?”
“I don’t like it,” added Sloane.
“I don’t like it either,” Harvath responded. “But I want to confirm the body is Lund’s. If this is legit, we might need the local police.”
“And if it’s not legit?” Jasinski asked.
“Then make sure Nicholas gets all my vinyl.”
She rolled her eyes.
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br /> “Relax,” he continued. “Everything is going to be fine. But in case it isn’t, I’d like to have my Sig with me.”
“Good call,” she said, handing his pistol back to him.
“Let’s find room for this, too,” said Haney, holding up a small GPS tracking device and tossing it to him. Harvath tucked it in his pocket.
“The man in the hat was supposed to hook us up with vehicles. How are we going to follow you?” Sloane asked.
“If worse comes to worst, Gotland has Uber. We’re only a few kilometers from the city center, so there should be plenty,” replied Harvath. “For now, though, I want you to send Ryan an update on our situation and have her reach out to Carl Pedersen. He has some good contacts in MUST and knows what’s at stake. He’ll help put a lid on this.
“Chase, I want you deplane and see if you can secure a courtesy car from the FBO. Barton, we’re going to need at least two permanent vehicles while we’re here, so check what the airport rental agencies have and try to nail something down. Haney, no one touches our gear but you. It stays onboard this plane until you’re sure the police are gone. In the meantime, Staelin, I want you to figure out where we’re going to bunk.”
“How long do you think we’re going to be here?” he asked.
“As long as it takes,” Harvath stated. “Okay, that’s it. Everybody get to work. Let’s go.”
While the team jumped up to do as he had directed, Jasinski stopped him. “Sloane explained to me that Lund was close to Pedersen and your boss. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. He was one of the good guys. Took a lot of risks over the years. Those risks made a difference.”
“Does MUST really know we’re here, or was Lars Lund the only one who knew?”
Harvath wasn’t sure how he wanted to answer her question, but decided to tell her the truth. “Lars was the only one who knew we were coming. I doubt he shared it with anyone else.”
“That makes what we’re doing, what you’re doing, even more dangerous.” Placing her hand gently on his shoulder, she warned, “Be careful.”
CHAPTER 22
* * *
Harvath carried his Sig Sauer in a neoprene Sticky brand holster, tucked inside his waistband at the small of his back. It was uncomfortable, and he wanted to adjust it. He didn’t dare to, though, for fear of tipping off Nyström that he was armed. Instead, he tried to focus on the sights and sounds of Visby by night.
It was a medieval city that functioned as the island’s capital. A UNESCO world heritage site, it was the best-preserved fortified commercial city in Northern Europe. Its Old Town looked like something out of a movie.
Strung with painted cottages, cobblestone lanes, and the ruins of Romanesque and Gothic churches, its most dramatic features were the largely intact thirteenth-century ramparts surrounding it. Harvath could only imagine what a draw it was at the height of summer.
Right now, on a Friday night off-season, it was still doing very well. Bars, restaurants, and cafés conducted a brisk business. People walked up and down the sidewalks and there was plenty of car and bus traffic.
As the Chief Inspector slowed down to allow a group of pedestrians to cross up ahead, Harvath asked, “What more can you tell me about the accident?”
“Not much. It happened in the countryside about thirty kilometers outside of town. Based on the tire marks, we believe Mr. Lund was traveling in excess of 120 kilometers an hour. The speed limit in that area is only 70.
“Mr. Lund appeared to have lost control of his vehicle, whereupon the vehicle left the roadway, rolled, and hit a tree. He was pronounced dead at the scene.”
“Who reported the accident?” Harvath asked.
“A passing motorist saw taillights in the brush, stopped to investigate, and then called police.”
“Do you see a lot of vehicular fatalities on Gotland?”
Nyström shook his head. “They are very rare. But when they do happen, the victims are usually holiday-makers and alcohol is involved. Was Mr. Lund a drinker?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” replied Harvath.
“Any medications?”
“I have no idea.”
“That’s okay,” said the Chief Inspector. “They will do a toxicology screen at the hospital.”
“Any evidence that Lund may have been forced off the road?”
The Swede thought about it for a moment. “Forced? Why do you ask? Are you aware of someone who wished him harm?”
Harvath shook his head. “Just wondering.”
“Perhaps he swerved to avoid an animal. Gotland is predominantly rural and roe deer are a real hazard throughout the island.”
“Was there any unusual damage to Lund’s vehicle? Anything that would suggest he came in contact with a deer, or anything else?”
“The car was very badly damaged. If there was such evidence, it would be incredibly difficult to ascertain. Have you much experience with automobile accidents, Mr. Harvath?”
“Some,” he replied. “Where is Lund’s car now?”
Nyström looked at the clock on his dashboard. “A wrecker was dispatched to retrieve it. It will be kept at the wrecking company’s lot while we finish the paperwork and file our initial findings. Sometimes, if a claim is filed, an insurance representative will come out from Stockholm. They may conduct their own investigation. When that’s complete, the car will be released.”
“And then?”
“In a case like this, where the vehicle is unsalvageable, it is sold for scrap. It will be loaded on the car ferry back to the mainland and disposed of there.”
“I’d like to see the vehicle myself. Would that be possible?” Harvath inquired.
“I suppose something could be arranged,” said Nyström. “But I must ask. What is your interest in viewing it? Are you looking for something? Something you think my team may have missed?”
“I’m sure your team did an excellent job. I only ask because my superior was quite fond of Mr. Lund. They were friends, as well as colleagues. He will be glad to know that I took an additional look.”
“You said you had some experience with automobile accidents. Were you a police officer previously?”
“In a prior career, I was a federal law enforcement officer.”
The Chief Inspector knew a thing or two about American law enforcement. Judging by the look of his passenger, he asked, “U.S. Marshals?”
“Secret Service,” Harvath replied. “Like I said, my superior will be happy just to know I took a look.”
“So this is a request, cop-to-cop, as you Americans say?”
Harvath nodded. “A professional courtesy. Cop-to-cop.”
Up ahead was a sign for the Visby Hospital. Nyström applied his turn signal and turned down a narrow residential street. Beyond, Harvath could already see the lights of the parking lot.
When they pulled in, the Chief Inspector found a space near the emergency room entrance and parked.
The hospital was much bigger than Harvath had expected. It was a sprawling three-story complex, built of orange brick, overlooking the ocean. The pale green of its multiple rooftops was echoed in the pale green of the window mullions. Harvath noticed a windsock, which told him there was a helipad nearby as well.
Entering the ER, they approached an intake desk, staffed by a pretty young nurse with spiky red hair who knew Nyström on sight. After a friendly back-and-forth, she laughed and waved the police officer and his guest past.
“Friend of yours?” Harvath asked as they walked down the hall.
“We’re in a local trail-running club together on Facebook,” the Swede replied. “She was teasing me about my recent time. She says that if they released criminals on the trails, maybe I would run faster.”
“And what did you say back that made her laugh?”
“I told her that I would definitely run faster if they released redheads.”
Harvath grinned. “Good line.” He had been right about the Chief Inspector being a runner.
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Approaching a bank of elevators, Nyström reached out and pressed the down button. When an elevator arrived, they stepped inside and rode it to the basement.
As soon as the doors opened, Harvath got a blast of one of his least favorite smells. Morgues had a very distinct odor. No matter how far the actual room was from the elevators or a stairwell, the minute he arrived on the same floor, he knew it. There was no disguising the scent.
“I assume you are familiar with the identification process?” the Chief Inspector asked.
Harvath nodded. He’d been through the process before.
Walking into the morgue, Nyström paused briefly to chat with one of the technicians. Once the discussion was complete, he led them to an autopsy table at the end of the tiled room. Atop it was a black body bag.
The Chief Inspector looked at him. “Ready?”
Harvath nodded again.
Reaching out, the morgue technician zipped open the bag enough to reveal Lund’s head and upper torso.
The trauma was horrific and the corpse was in bad shape. But the disfigurement wasn’t so extensive as to render it unrecognizable.
“Is this Lars Lund?” Nyström asked?
“That’s him,” said Harvath.
The Chief Inspector nodded at the technician, who then zipped up the body bag.
“What kind of personal effects was he carrying with him?” Harvath continued.
Nyström nodded once more and the technician stepped away to a cabinet. When he returned, he was carrying a police evidence bag. Setting it on an adjacent counter, he unpacked the contents.
Harvath examined the items—wallet, watch, keys, reading glasses, money clip, and a small tin of mints. “That’s all?”
The technician nodded.
Harvath looked at Nyström. “Where’s his cell phone?”
“We didn’t find one.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit strange?”
The Chief Inspector shrugged. “He may have been in such a hurry that he left without it. Or it might have been ejected from the vehicle. I’ll have a team search the area again in the morning.”
“Was there a briefcase or a laptop in the vehicle?”