Backlash

by Brad Thor

  Be that as it may, he didn’t have a choice. This was about survival—something no longer relevant to the deceased trapper.

  After removing the man’s clothes, Harvath solemnly wrapped him in one of the remaining blankets and, after observing a moment of silence, placed him outside.

  “Thank you,” he said before closing the door. “I owe you.”

  Returning to the fireplace, he saw that his water had come to a boil. Using a thick piece of cloth to protect his hand, he removed the saucepan by its handle and set it aside. Filling an infuser with loose leaves of black tea, he placed it in an enamel mug and poured the water over it.

  The tea had a distinctly smoky aroma, which was popular across Russia. It was referred to as Caravan tea.

  It was originally imported from China via camel train, and the smokiness was caused by exposure to caravan campfires over the tea’s eighteen-month journey. In the modern era, drying the leaves with smoke created the flavor.

  The closest comparison was Chinese Lapsang Souchong—a tea Lara loved, but whose name Harvath had always felt sounded too pretentious for him to say. Literature professors could order Lapsang Souchong. Navy SEALs? Not so much.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy drinking it. Whenever Lara made it at home, he was happy to have a cup, especially in fall or winter. The rest of the time, though, he was strictly a coffee guy.

  Lara loved to tease him about it, often when they were out with friends. Reluctantly, he would admit to drinking tea, but only the “chai” popular in the Muslim world, and only because it was part of Islamic culture and therefore part of his job when overseas.

  As the steam rose from his mug, he closed his eyes and could see Lara standing in his kitchen. She had a row of hand-painted tins lined up on his counter, each with a different kind of tea. Making him close his eyes, she liked to hold different ones under his nose to see if he could guess what they were. The only one he ever nailed consistently was the Lapsang.

  Remembering her frustration brought a smile to his face. But it was immediately wiped away by a tidal wave of guilt.

  Never again would he be able to tease her, or hold her, or tell her how much he loved her. She was gone, and it was his fault.

  Looking down into his tea, he wished the cup was filled with something stronger—much stronger. Something that would allow him to forget, if only for a little while, what had happened.

  “How does a Russian,” he wondered aloud about the dead man, “even in the middle of nowhere, not have a bottle of vodka?”

  He waited, but of course the man outside didn’t answer.

  Walking over to the cupboard, Harvath attempted to identify the cans of food.

  As best he could tell, there were carrots, beets, potatoes, and something that might be pickled cabbage. They offered some nutritional value, but not much. He tried not to think of all the food he had lost in the river.

  Instead, he worked on being thankful for what he had—the cabin, a fire, and dry clothes immediately came to mind.

  Looking over at the corpse, he also realized that he was thankful to be alive. He wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot, but he was alive. And as long as he was alive, there was hope.

  But hope for what? Escape? Revenge? Were those the only things worth living for?

  He neither knew nor cared. It was his training and his instinct to survive that were pushing him, dictating what should be done next.

  There was a kerosene lamp hanging from one of the rafters. Taking it down, he gave it a shake and sloshed the liquid around inside. Full.

  He set it on the table next to the shotgun and walked over to the fireplace for the matches. Small tasks, he reminded himself. Small victories. That was the key to staying positive and staying alive in a survival situation. Everything came down to attitude. With the right attitude, anything was possible.

  Adjusting the wick, he lit the lamp and lowered its glass chimney. It was amazing how much light it produced. Out of caution, he decided to drape the blankets over the windows. Even the flame from a lone, flickering candle could be seen from miles away.

  Returning to the table, he emptied the box, as well as the shotgun, and examined each of the shells. They were the correct gauge, and all appeared to be in good shape.

  After placing them aside, he fieldstripped the shotgun, cleaning and lubricating it as best he could with the materials he had available.

  It didn’t require much work. The Baikal’s owner had taken good care of it. Reassembling the weapon, he loaded it and leaned it up against the wall.

  Brewing another cup of tea, he dumped a can of potatoes into the saucepan. And as he got to work on breakfast, he tried to keep his mind on being thankful.

  Once the sun was up, there was no telling what his day was going to bring.

  CHAPTER 23

  * * *

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Spies who stayed in the game too long tended to make mistakes. Artur Kopec had been in the game too long.

  The old spy was on his last posting. It was a plum assignment for the Agencja Wywiadu, Poland’s foreign intelligence service. Based in the Polish embassy, he enjoyed official cover and diplomatic immunity, which was why Bob McGee had put Nicholas in charge of snatching him.

  To his credit, Kopec didn’t fight. He was too old, too tired, and too out of shape to put up any resistance.

  To his credit, Nicholas had done the deed himself and had shown up in person. Along with him, of course, were his dogs, as well as several of The Carlton Group’s top operatives.

  It was a sign of respect, something Kopec appreciated. Why, though, the little man had gone to such extremes was beyond him. He was old friends with Reed Carlton, quite enamored with Lydia Ryan, and fond of Scot Harvath. A call suggesting any of them needed anything would have brought him to their offices posthaste.

  Nicholas, though, had a shockproof bullshit detector. And now that he knew who Kopec was, he knew he was full of it.

  Yesterday, when McGee had asked to meet with Nicholas in Lydia’s office, it wasn’t just so they could be more comfortable. In case anything ever happened to her, she had given her former boss and mentor the code to her safe. Inside was an array of sealed envelopes, hard drives, paper files, journals, and binders full of information.

  Removing one such binder, McGee had handed it to Nicholas as he explained who the Polish intelligence operative really was.

  Codenamed Matterhorn, Artur Kopec was one of America’s greatest weapons against the Russians.

  He was a double agent. He worked for Poland, but his deeper loyalty was to his paymasters in Russia. Over the years, he had grown rich feeding Moscow sensitive intelligence, particularly about NATO and its member states.

  Reed Carlton had uncovered him, but instead of turning Kopec in, he had convinced the United States to turn the Polish spy to their advantage.

  The two had worked together on multiple allied assignments and had developed a strong affinity for each other. There was even trust between them. But once the Pole’s duplicity had become known, all of that was over.

  Carlton being Carlton, the experienced spymaster had figured out a way to use their friendship to his advantage. Not only did he maintain his relationship with Kopec but he also continued to share information with him.

  For the plan to be successful, though, the information had to be authentic and, at times, even damaging to NATO and the West. It was the only way to ensure that Moscow continued to place high value on the intel the Pole gave them. Which was exactly what had happened.

  Kopec was considered a source of such high quality that eventually his reporting was briefed directly to the Russian President himself. He was their “golden bird.” Carlton had built a covert pipeline right into the Kremlin.

  It was quite a feat. But Carlton hadn’t stopped there.

  In an effort to rattle the Russians and to erode confidence in their sources, he had leaked the existence of Matterhorn. It wasn’t an
ything in great detail, simply that a high-level Western asset being run by Russian intelligence as a double agent was actually a triple, feeding them bogus information.

  It drove the Russians crazy. None of their intelligence operatives knew who had the rotten source. They wasted countless man-hours interrogating their assets, fraying relationships, and creating an all-around toxic environment of distrust and suspicion.

  The best thing about it was that Kopec didn’t even know he was being used. No matter how many times his handler had quizzed him, his answers had never wavered. No one in Russian intelligence had any reason to distrust him.

  So, having survived the crucible, Matterhorn had become even more valuable to both Russia and the United States.

  This meant that whatever Nicholas decided to do with him, he had to be very careful.

  “Wait,” the little man had said, confused. “How is this my call?”

  In addition to the binder on Matterhorn, McGee had removed one additional item from the safe—an envelope with McGee’s name on it.

  Inside was a cover letter from Ryan, along with a sheaf of legal documents signed by Reed Carlton.

  Nicholas had always assumed that if anything happened to Lydia Ryan, leadership of the organization would pass to Scot Harvath. And if anything happened to Harvath, control would pass to the company’s Chief Financial Officer.

  Based on the documents McGee now showed him, he had been right on the first two candidates in the line of succession, but when it came to the third, Carlton had someone much different from the CFO in mind.

  Nicholas was stunned. “He wanted me to take charge? Of all this?”

  “He obviously thought you were up to the task.”

  Nicholas didn’t know what to say. He didn’t actually need to say anything. Carlton had shown tremendous faith in him. McGee knew Nicholas wouldn’t disappoint any of them—especially Harvath, whose life depended on the decisions they needed to make.

  The moment Nicholas had revealed that Kopec had been at the safe house, McGee had his answer to who had been behind the attack. It was the Russians. He was certain of it. But before he could move forward, they needed proof, and Kopec was the key.

  Nicholas and McGee had then discussed strategies, some more radical than others. Each posed considerable risk.

  In the end, Nicholas chose the least elegant but most direct path. They didn’t have time to screw around. Harvath was worth a thousand Matterhorns.

  Now, here he was, face-to-face with Kopec—two master craftsmen, skilled in the art of deception.

  Nicholas, with his short, dark hair and close-cropped beard, stared at the jowly, clean-shaven Pole, with his white hair and bulbous nose.

  Physically, they couldn’t have been more different, but appetite-wise, they had much in common, which was exactly how Nicholas had lured him out into the open.

  As a diplomat, discretion was top of the list for someone like Kopec. With only a couple of hours of hacking, Nicholas had been able to learn that in addition to being overweight, the Pole suffered from alcoholism and cataracts, and had a two-pack-a-day smoking habit, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and symptoms indicative of the onset of diabetes.

  The only reason the Polish government didn’t know this was that he was bribing a doctor to keep all of it out of his official file and away from the attention of his supervisors.

  Artur Kopec was a man with many secrets—exactly the kind of target Nicholas liked. Secrets were vulnerabilities, points upon which pressure could be applied and, if necessary, into which blades could be thrust.

  For the moment, though, they wanted Kopec to believe that despite the manner in which he had been picked up, he was safe, among friends.

  “I don’t understand,” said the Pole as he was shown into Lydia’s office. Nicholas then commanded the dogs to lie down, and the guards were dismissed.

  “Neither do we,” the little man responded, walking over to the bar cart. “Vodka?”

  Kopec nodded. “Neat.”

  Nicholas prepared their drinks and, as he had done with McGee, handed both to his guest as he leaped up onto the couch to join him.

  “I’m sorry for the drama,” said the little man as he reached out and accepted his glass. “You were being watched.”

  “I was? By whom?”

  “By whom? Everybody. Do you not know what has happened?”

  Kopec looked at Nicholas, completely clueless. “I have no idea.”

  This time, the little man believed him. “Reed and Lydia are dead.”

  “Dead?” he replied, shock written across his face. “What happened?”

  “We don’t have all the details yet. I understand you went to visit Reed not too long ago?”

  “Is that why I’m here?”

  Nicholas took a sip of his drink and nodded. “There’s video of you leaving his cottage in New Hampshire shortly before the murders took place.”

  “Murders?” he replied, even more agitated.

  “Along with his nurse and Harvath’s wife.”

  “Harvath was married?”

  Nicholas nodded. “They had gotten married earlier that day, before you arrived. Harvath wanted to do it before Reed had fully slipped away.”

  “He didn’t mention it.”

  The little man smiled. It was good to have Kopec on record as having been there. “Harvath isn’t much of a talker,” he replied. “More of a doer.”

  Kopec sat expressionless, drink in hand. “What happened to him? To his wife?”

  “The wife is dead. Reed’s nurse is also dead.”

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. What about Harvath?”

  “We don’t know. That’s what I was hoping you could tell us.”

  The Pole looked at him, confused. “Me?”

  “Like I said, everybody is looking for you, Artur—the FBI, CIA, DSS, all of them. But they didn’t find you. I did.”

  “Is that good?”

  Nicholas smiled again. “I think you can end up being the hero in all of this. There could even be a White House visit and possibly a Presidential Medal of Freedom.”

  It was an attractive offer, and one that appealed to his vanity, but it would take a lot more than a medal and a visit with the American President to pay for the villa he wanted in the south of France.

  That required cash, and lots of it—which was where the Russians came in. As long as he continued to do what he was told, they would continue to keep the money flowing.

  Those payments were his retirement plan. He had no intention of taking a flamethrower to the goose that laid the golden eggs.

  “There’s no need for a medal,” he replied. “All I want to do is help.”

  For an intelligence operative, Kopec was a terrible liar. Nevertheless, Nicholas played along. “Who knew you were going up to New Hampshire?”

  The Pole pretended to think for a moment. “Everything was coordinated through Lydia. I assumed she and Harvath were the only ones who knew.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about the trip?”

  “No,” Kopec replied with a shake of his head. “Not a soul.”

  More lies.

  Nicholas wanted to put a bullet in him. Or, better yet, he wanted to set the dogs on him, wait for his confession, and then put a bullet in him.

  But that wasn’t what he and McGee had agreed to. If nothing else, Nicholas was a man of his word. It was time to stop playing games.

  Removing a folder from behind one of the cushions, he handed it to Kopec and said, “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  * * *

  ALAKURTTI AIR BASE

  MURMANSK OBLAST

  The Alakurtti Air Base was located near the southern boundary of the Murmansk Oblast, fifty kilometers from the Finnish border. It was home to Russia’s Fourth Naval Bomber Regiment and the 485th Independent Helicopter Regiment.

  General Minayev was already waiting for Teplov when his enormous cargo plan
e from Ukraine touched down and taxied into the hangar.

  Though it was a highly secure military airfield, Minayev preferred to keep the presence of the Wagner mercenaries as quiet as possible. Not even a ground crew had been allowed inside.

  When the aircraft’s loading ramp dropped, the first thing the General saw was Teplov.

  He was the picture of an elite Russian commando—tall and muscular, with thick veins that snaked under his skin like ropes. His body was marbleized with scar tissue, a testament to his years of combat.

  Calling out orders to his men, he stepped down the ramp and greeted Minayev. “What’s the latest?”

  “Follow me,” the General replied, returning the mercenary’s salute.

  At the rear of the hangar was a large ready room that had been temporarily converted into an operations center. It was staffed by a handful of trusted GRU personnel Minayev had brought along from Moscow.

  Tacked to one of the walls was a large map of the Murmansk Oblast. A grid, marked out in red grease pencil, defined a search area. Teplov helped himself to a cup of coffee and then stood back to study the map.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “One of our transport planes,” said Minayev, picking up a picture of the Antonov An-74 aircraft and taping it to the wall next to the map, “took off from Murmansk two days ago and disappeared in bad weather.”

  “No emergency beacon?”

  “It carried a manual beacon. Never activated.”

  “What was this plane transporting?”

  The General picked up another photograph, this one of a man in restraints, and taped it beneath. “An American intelligence operative.”

  Teplov looked at the name under the photograph. “Scot Harvath. Should I know him?”

  “The Kremlin knows him. That’s all that matters.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  Minayev handed over a file. “It’s all in there. Most important, he’s a former U.S. Navy SEAL with advanced winter warfare training.”

  “So is this a rescue or a recovery operation?”