Backlash

by Brad Thor

  For all intents and purposes, the town of Nivsky now belonged to Teplov. If Harvath was here—and he had good reason to believe he was—his mercenaries would find him.

  But to do so, he was going to need to enlist the locals. Judging by the number of eyeballs watching him from the Frosty Pelican, he had found the perfect place to start. Whistling over a handful of his men, he headed toward the establishment.

  Like the Nazi SS, whose strategies he not only studied but revered, Teplov was a voracious consumer of data. Via a quick Internet search on the way in, he had learned how much the average citizen of the Oblast earned, how much they saved, and how much they carried in debt. Establishing a bounty on Harvath had been simple.

  Fifteen thousand American dollars was more than twice the average annual salary. The townspeople would be cutting each other’s throats to find Harvath and turn him in.

  In addition to motivating the locals, they would block the roads in and out, while teams went house to house conducting searches.

  During World War II, SS troops worked with Italian fascist units to root out American spies and saboteurs who were hiding in the snowy forests and Alpine villages near the Brenner Pass. The exercises were called rastrellamento—Italian for “raking up.”

  Though each rastrellamento covered a much greater area and involved far more soldiers, Teplov was confident that the same concept would work in Nivsky. It came down to offering a very big carrot, backed up with a very big stick.

  As he entered the bar, the customers fell silent. Teplov pulled out a picture of Harvath and held it up so everyone could see it.

  “We are looking for a man—an American spy—who has murdered four Russian soldiers and at least one Russian Air Force member. He was on a plane that crashed approximately seventy-five kilometers east of here. We have reason to believe he is now traveling via snowmobile and headed for the border.

  “The Russian government is offering a reward of fifteen thousand U.S. dollars—that’s nearly a hundred thousand rubles—for information leading to his capture. This man is armed and considered very dangerous. If you see him, do not approach him. My men and I will be staying in your town until we find him.

  “We will be conducting house-to-house searches. If anyone is found to be sheltering this man, they will be prosecuted as an accomplice to murder and an enemy of the state. If anyone so much as gives him a crust of bread, they will also be prosecuted as an accomplice to murder and an enemy of the state.

  “If you suspect that your neighbor or someone you know is aiding this American, you must report it to me or one of my men immediately. Failure to do so will result in the harshest of punishments.

  “At both ends of town, we are establishing checkpoints. It will be necessary to provide your government-issued identification when entering and leaving. We are also creating a registry of vehicles.

  “To that end, let’s begin with the five SUVs parked immediately outside. Will the owners please identify themselves by raising their hands?”

  Teplov waited until the hands went up and then sent his men to collect the keys from four of them. The man with the worst vehicle would be allowed to keep his. He would function as a chauffeur for the others.

  Immediately, the men began to protest. One even refused to hand over his keys. Teplov used that as an opportunity to teach the townspeople a lesson.

  When he nodded his head, two of his men dragged the resister out of the bar and beat him in front of the windows for all to see. They left him bloody and unconscious in the snow.

  Returning inside, they commandeered the Xerox machine in the office and made hundreds of copies of Harvath’s photo. They made sure everyone in the place had one before leaving with tape, staple guns, and the rest of the copies.

  As they exited, Teplov kept an eye on the crowd until his men were safely out the door. If anyone was going to do something stupid, like throw a bottle, this was when it normally happened. No one did.

  Once the Wagner men had moved away from the entrance, several of the patrons rushed outside to retrieve their beaten friend. Christina, who had been there to pick up her order, rushed outside with them.

  Careful to make sure his head and neck were supported, they carried him back inside, laid him down, and covered him with a coat to help warm him up.

  Everyone was aghast at what the soldiers had done. “This isn’t the Soviet Union,” one said. “They cannot do that to us,” said another. “We have our rights!” exclaimed a third person.

  Christina, though, knew differently. “Rights” were whatever the oligarchs in Moscow decided they were. They could be given and they could be taken away at a moment’s notice.

  She also knew that those men were not soldiers—not in the traditional sense. They weren’t current members of the Russian Army. They were mercenaries. She had recognized the patch they were all wearing on their parkas. It was just like the one her husband had worn as part of his uniform. They belonged to Wagner.

  And if Wagner was here in Nivsky, it could mean only one thing—the Kremlin was keeping the hunt for Harvath a secret.

  Why they would do that she didn’t know. She also didn’t care. She had seen the condition of Harvath’s body. She had also just seen the brutality they were capable of firsthand.

  The Wagner men were dangerous. They were also about to close off the town and begin a house-to-house search. With four SUVs and several snowmobiles, they would be able to cover a lot of ground in a short time. She needed to get back to Harvath as soon as possible.

  But with all eyes on her as the town’s doctor, she first needed to tend to the man who had been so savagely attacked.

  CHAPTER 38

  * * *

  * * *

  Get your things,” said Christina as she burst through the back door of the clinic and began gathering up supplies. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

  “I heard the helicopters,” replied Harvath, already dressed and ready to go. “What’s going on?”

  “They know you’re here. They’re passing around your photo and are closing off the town.”

  He implored her to take a breath. “Who knows I’m here?”

  “Mercenaries. Wagner, the company my husband worked for.”

  Harvath was familiar with them. Most were ex-Spetsnaz. “How many did you see?”

  “Around twenty. Maybe more.”

  “How were they equipped?”

  “White uniforms. Helmets with night vision. They were carrying rifles. And pistols, too.”

  “How do they plan to close off the town?”

  “They are blocking the road at both ends. Anyone coming in or going out will be checked. They are offering a reward for your capture.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars, American. That’s a lot of money around here.”

  He didn’t doubt it. He knew enough about Russia to have an idea what the average person earned, especially someone who didn’t live in Moscow or St. Petersburg.

  “How are we going to get out?” he asked.

  It was a good question—one her mind had been working overtime on. “Driving is impossible,” she replied. “I’m afraid the snowmobile is, too. We’ll have to figure something else out, but we can’t stay here. They’re right behind me. We need to get going. Now.”

  The “Now” kicked Harvath into high gear.

  Christina had struck him as a calm, very competent medical professional, someone capable of staying cool under pressure. When she intimated it was time to haul ass, he took it seriously.

  Having upward of twenty, and possibly more, former Spetsnaz soldiers on his tail wasn’t something he relished. He had made it this far because of good training, good luck, and one hell of a head start.

  The head start was now all but gone. All he had left was his training and whatever good luck ended up in his path.

  Before she had left to pick up the food, he had asked her to help him send a message back to the United States. Without revealing com
pletely how the process worked, he had assured her that it couldn’t be traced back to her and that there was no risk.

  Knowing how the Russian Internet was used to hunt down anyone who opposed the Kremlin, it didn’t sound safe to her. Nevertheless, she had said she’d think about it and they could discuss it when she got back.

  Now, as Harvath asked her again, she looked at him like he was crazy.

  “It’ll take two seconds,” he said.

  “Do you want to get caught?” she asked. “Because I don’t. They made it very clear what will happen to anyone who is discovered assisting you.”

  Of course Harvath didn’t want to get caught. He wanted to get to the border. But he also wanted to summon the cavalry.

  Knowing the best-trained, best-equipped military on the planet was speeding to his rescue wouldn’t necessarily improve his odds in the short run, but it would be a hell of a morale booster. It also meant that all he had to do was stay alive until they could get to him. They would handle getting him out.

  As Christina turned on her heel and headed out the back door, he abandoned any hope of hopping on her computer. No matter how little time he thought he needed to transmit his message, he couldn’t do it without her help.

  Outside, her tiny 4x4 was idling in the cold. Before hopping inside, she pointed to a shed and said, “It’s unlocked. Put the snowmobile in there.”

  Harvath did as he was told.

  Fortunately, the machine fired right up and he didn’t need to drag it. Not that he could have if he had wanted to. His entire body was aching. He would have set the fucking thing on fire before dragging it into a shed to hide it.

  Throwing his rucksack into the back of the 4x4, he hopped into the passenger seat with the pump-action Baikal and literally rode “shotgun.”

  “What’s the plan?” he asked, scanning the street in both directions as she pulled away from the medical clinic.

  “You’re a bit like cancer,” she said, handing him his takeout. “The Wagner mercenaries know the town has it—they just don’t know where exactly to look for it.”

  “Okay,” Harvath replied, unwrapping the first bacon cheeseburger, not sure where she was going with her analogy.

  “When doctors begin to focus in on where the cancer is, they start to get excited. It makes sense. They can’t kill it until they’ve located it. So once a location makes itself known, all attention goes to that one point.”

  “So?”

  “So I think we should give the mercenaries a location.”

  “What do you have in mind?” he asked as he took his first bite.

  “If they’re any good, which I’m assuming they are, my clinic is high on their list of places to check for a fugitive who survived a plane crash. Once they get there, they’ll see my back door has been kicked in and the heat has been turned up. They’ll find bloody gauze pads, as well as fresh sterile wipes in the garbage. It won’t take long for them to put two and two together.

  “Expanding their search, they’ll find the snowmobile in the shed. They might not get to it right away, but at some point someone will tie it to my uncle. When that happens, they’ll start connecting dots. The cabin you stayed in was, obviously, within walking distance of the crash. If they haven’t already, they’ll search his home here, on the outskirts of Nivsky.”

  “And that’s what you want to give them?”

  Christina shook her head. “At some point, very soon, they’re going to check it out. When they do, I want to leave a false trail. I want them to think you were there, but have gone in a completely different direction.”

  She was a strategic thinker, and he appreciated that about her. Setting up some sort of red herring at the uncle’s house could buy them valuable time.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Finish eating. We can talk about it when we get there.”

  Harvath, who had been chowing through the first burger as quickly as he could while continuing to scan for threats, took out the Diet Coke and drained half of it in one long sip.

  It reminded him of some low-rolling death-row inmate’s last meal. He just hoped it wouldn’t be his.

  CHAPTER 39

  * * *

  * * *

  The trapper’s home was nothing like his cabin. It was a modern, orange brick structure clad with red roofing tiles. Wrought-iron railings bracketed a set of three concrete steps in front, which perfectly matched the house’s glossy black gutters. An artsy piece of metal sheeting was bolted above the door to provide a modicum of protection from the elements when people were entering or leaving.

  Inside, the rooms were small but cozy—probably just the right amount of space for an older man who lived alone and was often gone. It smelled like potting soil and old newspaper.

  There were books, a television set, and even a record player. Framed family photos lined an entire bookshelf; many of them included Christina.

  “I’m sorry again about your uncle,” he said.

  “It’s how he wanted to die—out there in the wilderness. We were the only family each other had left. I think if it hadn’t been for me, he would have sold this place, gone into the woods, and never come back.”

  “Are these your parents?” he asked, pointing to one of the pictures.

  “Yes. And my aunt. They’re all deceased now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Harvath repeated.

  The woman shrugged. “Life in Russia is tough. Life in rural Russia is even tougher. They all smoked and drank way too much. None of them, except for my uncle, ever got any exercise.”

  She sounded cold and detached, but Harvath could see the emotion in her eyes. It wasn’t easy being the only one left. Harvath could relate.

  Off the living room was a small kitchen. Stepping away from him, Christina ducked inside and began inventorying supplies.

  As Harvath continued poking around the living room, she suggested he start a fire in the fireplace. “Not too big,” she cautioned. “We want to make sure it’s burned down by the time anyone gets here. Let them think we have a bigger head start than we do.”

  It was a good idea. After he got the fire going, he called out to her and asked what he could do next.

  “My uncle was a vain man who colored his hair. There should be a kit in the bathroom. Leave any packaging in the trash, but flush the actual coloring down the toilet, after you spill some at the sink. They’ll think you’re trying to change your appearance. Run the shower and leave towels on the floor. If you want to shave, do it quickly. I’ll grab some extra clothes from the closet.”

  The woman was a natural. Not everything she had suggested would work, but every time their pursuers were forced to stop, scratch their heads, and evaluate, it was an additional moment they fell behind.

  Hitting the bathroom, he decided against the shave. Instead, he invested ninety seconds in a hot shower. It was one of the best showers he could ever remember taking.

  With hot food in his stomach and hot water on his skin, it was the first time since the plane crash that he had felt truly warm. He had a feeling it wasn’t going to last.

  Climbing out, he quickly dried himself off and then wrapped the towel around his waist, below the bite wounds.

  He had taken off his bandages before getting in the shower. All of them were bloodstained. Christina hadn’t sewn him up. Part of healing from a wolf attack was leaving the wounds open so they could seep. That meant no stiches and no staples.

  He was just about to put his bandages back on when Christina knocked and pushed open the bathroom door.

  “Leave those,” she said, stepping inside with her bag. “I brought more. I don’t know how smart those Wagner assholes are, but I like reinforcing that you’re injured. Leaving more bloody bandages will continue to make them think they have the upper hand.”

  After she had redressed his wounds, she placed two pain pills next to the sink and stepped out so that he could finish up.

  Searching for the hair dye, he
found a brand new toothbrush and brushed his teeth. It was another terrific feeling, something he had long taken for granted.

  After leaving a few drops around the sink and dumping the dye chemicals down the toilet, he cast aside the packaging and swallowed the pills.

  Getting dressed, he walked back out to the living room and found Christina, hands on hips, slowly scanning the bookshelves.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Bread crumbs to help create that false trail we discussed in the car.”

  Finally, she found it. Removing a large atlas of the Murmansk Oblast, Christina carried it to the dining room table, beckoned Harvath over, and began flipping through its brightly colored pages.

  When she got to the map she wanted, she stopped and tapped it with her finger. “This one.”

  Harvath examined the image. It showed Russian rail lines as they ran along the western edge of the Oblast.

  Reaching for a ballpoint pen, she picked a spot on the border with Finland, about three hundred kilometers northwest of Nivsky, and circled it.

  “Why there?” he asked.

  “Because we’re going in the other direction,” she replied, as she tore the page out of the atlas and tucked it in her pocket.

  He then watched as she returned the book to the shelf, though not as neatly as he had found it. Once more, he was impressed with her thinking.

  “For somebody who’s not sure how smart those Wagner assholes are, you’re giving them a lot of credit.”

  “You don’t think it will work?” she answered.

  “I think it’s a long shot. First, they have to find the atlas. Next they have to notice the page is missing. Then they have to source another copy of the same atlas. I’m assuming it’s popular?”

  The woman nodded. “Practically everybody in town has one.”

  “Okay,” Harvath went on. “Next, someone has to notice the impression left behind by your pen. If this person knows anything, they’ll lay a piece of paper down and rub it with a pencil. That’ll let them know where you made your circle on the missing page. They marry that up with an intact atlas, and the wild-goose chase is on. Did I miss anything?”