by Brad Thor
“It definitely is,” said Harvath. “You see, right after this GRU team beat and tortured a Lithuanian truck driver named Antanas Lukša for information, that should have led them to Filip. Instead, they came to you. And the reason they came to you was because they already had you. You were already compromised.
“Why should they waste any time in breaking Filip, when you could get them the intelligence they wanted? And that’s what you did. Filip told you about Carl Pedersen, you told the Russians, and the Russians had Carl killed.”
“Pedersen is dead?” the VSD Director asked, his face pale, his arrogance gone.
Harvath glared at him. “What did you think the Russians were going to do with the information? Send him flowers?”
Like the coward he was, Simulik’s shock quickly began giving way to something else: self-preservation. “I couldn’t have known what they would do with the information.”
“Norway is an ally, and a fellow member of NATO.”
“So is the United States,” he snapped. “Yet you used our air base to launch a hostile, unsanctioned action against a foreign nation. Your operation could have dragged all of us into war.”
The VSD Director had no idea what he was talking about. Harvath’s operation had saved them from war. The Russians had already set the wheels in motion for an invasion—and not just of Lithuania, but of Estonia, Latvia, and a portion of Sweden as well.
As much as he hated the Russians, their plan had been brilliant. By overrunning the tiny garrison on the Swedish island of Gotland, they would have been able to install their mobile missile batteries and close off the entire Baltic Sea. From Kaliningrad, their air defense systems, along with legions of their fighter jets, would control the skies. The only way for NATO to resupply their tiny partners and pump soldiers and equipment into the area would be via trains out of Poland.
There was just one problem—the gauge of the railroad tracks changed at the Polish-Lithuanian border and everything had to be transferred onto new trains. These transfer points were predesignated for sabotage.
No matter how many times the Pentagon had run the simulation, no matter how many times they had brought in new and even more brilliant strategists, the Russians always won the conflict—and a new world war broke out as a result.
Harvath’s Kaliningrad operation—the risking of a handful of American lives in order to remove one Russian from the game and therefore avoiding World War III—had been considered worth it.
What hadn’t been considered was how many others would die as a result of Harvath’s actions. If he had known his wife would be slaughtered, along with Lydia Ryan, the Old Man, and Carl Pedersen, would he have still gone through with it? It was a question he didn’t have the courage or emotional strength to ask himself. Not at this point. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Simulik, growing in confidence over the cover story he was constructing, kept on talking. “You Americans think you can go anywhere and do anything you want. Well, you know what? You can’t.
“If Lithuania chooses to share intelligence with Russia, we are within our rights. And there’s nothing America can do about it. We decide how our nation survives. Not you.”
It was a real stemwinder he was getting himself into. As the self-righteous indignation built, little flecks of spittle—as white as his dandruff—formed at the corners of his mouth. The color had returned to his face and the anger radiating from him was almost palpable.
Harvath was starting to get the impression that Simulik didn’t care for the United States and had probably felt this way for a long time. There were plenty of older people in the former Soviet satellites, as well as Russia itself, who still pined for the “good old days” of communism. Harvath was always tempted to ask them what they missed the most—the breadlines or the gulags.
Simulik could call what he was doing, assuring the “survival of Lithuania,” but the truth was that the only survival he was interested in was his own. Harvath figured that over a single lunch hour he could probably uncover enough banking irregularities to show that the VSD Director was dirty. He made a mental note to encourage Landsbergis to do just that. He might even rope in Nicholas. This guy needed to be ousted.
He was about to lay into him, when the man turned to vent his rage on his deputy in Lithuanian.
“You lied to me. You knew he was coming here to accuse me of this. You are actively conspiring with the Americans against your own country. This will not be allowed to stand. You are finished. Do you hear me? Finished.”
For Harvath’s benefit, Landsbergis addressed his boss in English. “You’re the one who is finished, Andriejus. You sided with the Russians and sold out an ally. That will not play well. Not with our government and not with our people.”
“And you contributed material support, Lithuanian support, to a rogue operation against the Russians, which they could use as a justification for war against us.”
“I say we take our arguments to the Parliament and let the chips fall where they may.”
“Thankfully, that is not going to be necessary,” said a new voice in the room.
Harvath and Landsbergis spun to see a man with jet-black hair and a perfectly pruned Vandyke standing in the doorway.
Sergei Guryev had joined the conversation.
CHAPTER 35
With Guryev was the aforementioned red-bearded thug Kovalyov, as well as the other two goons who had presumably held Lukša down while he was being tortured. All of them had weapons, and all of their weapons were pointed at Harvath and Landsbergis.
“Hands,” said the Russian, in perfect English. “Let me see those hands. Nice and high.”
Harvath and Landsbergis did as he commanded while his men streamed into the room and disarmed them.
“You took your time getting here,” Simulik complained.
“Quiet, Andriejus,” Guryev shot back. “Don’t forget, you work for me—not the other way around.”
Harvath was glad to have the confirmation, but it came with a downside. Admitting that the VSD Director worked for them meant that Guryev and his crew weren’t about to let him go.
If anything, they were going to take him back to Russia and finish the job that had been started before he had escaped. Unless, of course, he was worth more to them dead than alive. If that was the case, he could be seconds away from being executed.
“I cannot tell you what a strange and unexpected pleasure this is,” Guryev said, turning his attention to Harvath. “You killed several friends of mine back in Russia. I am looking forward to returning the favor.”
“I killed a lot of Russians while I was there,” he replied. “So you’ll forgive me if I don’t remember them.”
“Americans—always making jokes.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
Harvath knew he was in trouble and shouldn’t have been kicking the hornet’s nest.
His opponents were not typical Russian muscle—the sides of beef normally seen rolling with Moscow gangsters. He could tell by their eyes that these men were not only intelligent, but also switched on. They were probably ex-military, possibly even ex–Special Forces operatives, Spetsnaz.
He needed to come up with a way out of this. Quickly. Think, he exhorted himself.
Scanning the room, he looked for any advantage. He and Landsbergis had been positioned up against the wall—there was no cover or concealment. There were, though, multiple items he could turn into weapons.
From the highly polished pair of scissors or the brass inkwell on the desk, to the martini pitcher and nickel-plated cocktail picks behind it, his choices were broad. The challenge was getting to just one of them without being riddled with bullets. What he needed was a distraction.
But when Guryev next spoke, he realized that wasn’t going to happen. “My President wants you dead or alive. He prefers alive, of course, because you killed his son and he’d like the pleasure of killing you himself.
“Escaping from Russia, as I said, you killed several of my friends. Thes
e men were highly skilled, which tells me I need to be very careful with you. So, while I’d like to deliver you to my President alive, I think dead is a much safer option.”
Harvath smiled. “Then you’re even more arrogant than Director Simulik.”
The Russian smiled back. “That’s a very high bar. You’ll forgive me if I disagree.”
“If your President had wanted me dead, he could have killed me when he murdered my wife and my colleagues. Instead, he brought me all the way to Russia. Why do you think that was?”
“I cannot possibly know the President’s mind.”
“Exactly. Which is why you’d be a fool to assume you can now.”
Guryev’s smile broadened. “Does banter like this normally work for you, Mr. Harvath?”
“Only with less intelligent people,” he replied.
For a moment, the Russian was unsure of whether he had been complimented or insulted.
“I have a lot of information that your President wants. Believe me, your reward is going to be a lot bigger if you bring me in alive.”
“You sound to me,” the Russian responded, “like a man who is trying to buy time. I’m sorry, though, Mr. Harvath. There is no more time. I’m not taking you in alive.”
“In that case,” said Harvath, “let me show you my shocked face.”
As he opened his mouth, plugged his fingers in his ears, and closed his eyes, a pair of flashbang grenades were tossed into the room.
When they detonated, they did so with ear-splitting, 180-decibel bangs accompanied by blinding flashes of over one million candela.
Their purpose was to throw an enemy into confusion and disorientation while interrupting their balance and coordination.
Distracted and temporarily incapacitated, it was impossible for them to adequately respond.
Having prepared himself for the explosion, Harvath was able to spring into action.
The two Russian operatives nearest him received the brunt of his response. These were the men who had pinned Lukša down and held him while he was being tortured.
Snatching the heavy brass inkwell off the desk, he swung it like a mace, striking each of the men in the head and knocking them unconscious.
Grabbing one of their guns, he spun to face the others, but the task had already been completed. Sølvi had used the two Tasers from his bag in the Land Cruiser—the same bag in which she had found the flashbangs—to drop Guryev and Kovalyov to the floor.
The effect wouldn’t last long, though. They didn’t call it the “ride for five” for nothing. The jolt of electricity bought you only a handful of seconds.
“Did you bring any restraints?” Harvath asked.
“I brought the whole bag,” she replied. “It’s out in the hallway.”
As Harvath hurried to grab it, Sølvi noticed Guryev and Kovalyov coming around. Pressing the triggers of the Tasers, she let them ride the lightning again.
Fishing out a handful of flex cuffs, Harvath came back into the room and restrained all of the Russians. He also cuffed Simulik.
Once everyone had been patted down and their weapons taken away, it was time to get some answers. Harvath started with Guryev. Sølvi and Landsbergis, pistols in hand, kept everyone covered.
“What do you know about Carl Pedersen?”
“Fuck you,” the Russian replied.
Harvath was about to give him a warning when Sølvi lowered her suppressed pistol, pointed it at the man’s right knee, and pulled the trigger.
Guryev howled in pain.
“Answer the question,” the Norwegian demanded. “Or your right knee will be next.”
“Fuck you,” he repeated, this time at her.
Sølvi adjusted her aim and fired at his other knee.
The Russian screamed even louder.
Harvath looked at her. There was no emotion on her face. She was all business. As cold as ice.
“You’ve run out of knees,” said Harvath, turning his attention back to Guryev. “You’d better answer my question, before she finds a new body part to target.”
The man barely managed to mumble “Fuck. You,” from behind his gritted teeth, when Sølvi shot him again, this time in his left shoulder.
It was followed by another wave of screaming.
“What do you know about Carl Pedersen?” Harvath asked again.
“Norwegian Intelligence,” came the reply, but not from Guryev. It had come from Kovalyov.
Harvath shot him a glance.
His boss told to him to shut up in Russian and they began arguing, before Sølvi put a round past each one of their heads and they instantly fell silent.
“What do you know about him?” Harvath repeated. “Besides the fact that he was Norwegian Intelligence.”
“He introduced you to Landsbergis and Landsbergis helped facilitate your operation into Kaliningrad.”
“Was Landsbergis next?”
The bearded man looked at Harvath confused. “Next?”
“All Carl did was make the introduction. Landsbergis was responsible for much more. If you were willing to torture and murder Carl over an introduction, I can only imagine what Moscow was planning for Landsbergis.”
Kovalyov was even more confused. “Torture? Murder?” he said, before addressing his boss again in Russian.
Sølvi fired another round, intentionally missing his knee, but not by much. It was enough to get his attention. “English only,” she ordered, as she ejected her magazine and inserted a fresh one. “No more Russian.”
“We didn’t know Pedersen was dead.”
“Bullshit,” Harvath replied.
Sølvi adjusted her aim and prepared to not miss his knee this time, but the bearded man begged her not to fire.
“If he was killed, it wasn’t by us.”
“He was killed and it was by you,” she spat back. “Maybe the assassin wasn’t GRU. Maybe the killer was FSB. The orders, though, came from Moscow.”
“Think about it,” Guryev managed with a grimace as pain radiated throughout his body. “If someone on our side was angry enough to kill Pedersen for his involvement, then Landsbergis would have been killed too. And I would have been tasked with carrying it out.”
“And you never received any such tasking?” Landsbergis demanded.
“No,” the Russian replied. “We didn’t even know Pedersen was dead. Our job was to unravel how the operation took place and report back anything we learned. When the truck driver was identified, we were sent to interrogate him. And, if we discovered he was involved, we had orders to hurt him so that he couldn’t work. But we were never told to kill him.”
Harvath didn’t want to say it, but the man’s argument made sense. If Carl’s involvement had merited killing, then certainly Landsbergis’s did, and so too did Lukša’s. It would have settled the score and sent a strong message—Cross Moscow at your peril. If you do, you’ll pay the ultimate price. But that was looking less and less like what was going on here.
While Harvath appeared to be the reason Carl had been killed, perhaps it was possible that Moscow wasn’t behind it. If it wasn’t Moscow, though, who was it?
“I don’t buy any of this,” said Harvath. “Shoot him again.”
“No!” Kovalyov shouted, sticking up for his boss. “There may be another reason.”
Harvath waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, he nodded at Sølvi. As she pointed her pistol at the bearded man’s crotch, the Russian exclaimed, “Montecalvo!”
“What is ‘Montecalvo’? she demanded, applying pressure to her trigger.
“She’s a person,” Kovalyov clarified. “A broker of information.”
“What does she have to do with Carl’s murder?”
“I gave her Pedersen’s name.”
“You did what?” Guryev grunted.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What did you do?” the Russian GRU boss demanded.
“I sold a small piece of information.”
“About one of our
operations?”
“Only after the report had been filed,” the bearded man said in an attempt to justify his actions. “Why should our superiors be the only ones getting rich off of our work?”
“Alexander, you have betrayed us.”
“I have only done what is done every single day in Moscow. They use the information from our intelligence operations to steal intellectual property and to take advantage of the stock market. Why should we not do the same? Especially when we are the ones out in the field taking all of the risks?”
Guryev was in too much pain to even shake his head. All he could do to show his disappointment was to close his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, he said, “Tell them how to find Montecalvo. If you don’t, they’re going to kill us.”
CHAPTER 36
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
From the moment he was wheels down at Logan International, the Ghost did what he did best—he began to build a human network.
His cab driver, as most cab drivers tended to be, was a font of information. He not only knew a lot about the neighborhood the Ghost would be staying in, but he also had a friend whose sister-in-law owned a local business.
The business, it turned out, was a small grocery store, two blocks away from the three-flat owned by Harvath’s deceased wife. Across the street was a playground.
The store was the nerve-center of the neighborhood and the collection point for every piece of gossip, rumor, and innuendo for ten blocks in any direction.
The Ghost had the cab driver stop and introduce him. He did some quick shopping, endearing himself to the owner, and then headed to his Airbnb nearby.
Over the course of the next two days, he popped in and out of the little store. He billed himself as a New York City photographer and videographer who was compiling a living history of the neighborhoods of Boston. The goal of his “project” was to capture the soul of each neighborhood—the day-to-day things that made them tick, as well as their eccentric and unusual characters.
The shopkeeper thought it was a wonderful idea. The store had been in her family for three generations. She had grown up in the neighborhood and knew everyone. And so, his human network had begun to grow.