by Brad Thor
It was a lie. Her uncle wasn’t a “neat freak.” He was just an older man with few possessions who kept his home in order. The neat freak label was useful, though, in pointing the mercenary in the direction she needed him to go.
“Interesting,” said Teplov, as he picked up the pen, walked it over to the desk near the bookshelves, and placed it in the leather cup with the others. “What else do you see?”
She took her time looking around. She absolutely wanted to draw his attention to the atlas, but of all the cards she had to play, this one was the most critical.
After a protracted search, she walked back into the kitchen, pulled a small, etched glass from the cupboard, and took a bottle of chilled vodka from the freezer.
As Teplov watched, she poured a tall shot and knocked it back. When it looked as if she was setting up a second, he stopped her.
“We’re almost done here. Why don’t you wait until you’re back home?”
Christina glared at him. “My uncle’s dead, but at least you’re consistent. That’s exactly the level of empathy I’d expect from Wagner.”
He didn’t know what she wanted and he was running out of patience with this woman.
While driving to the clinic, he had contacted his offices in Moscow and had verified that she was who she said and that her husband had died while employed by his company. Even so, there was something about her that bothered him. He didn’t trust her.
Nevertheless, for the moment, he had to humor her.
“I’m sorry. Is there someone I can contact for you?”
She put on an all-too-obvious fake smile and shook her head. “There’s no one to contact. You and President Peshkov killed my husband. And now, somehow, the two of you have figured out a way to kill the only other family member I had left.”
Teplov didn’t know what to say.
“Okay if I have one more?” Christina asked as she poured another shot and, without waiting for his response, tossed it back.
Setting the bottle down, she left the kitchen and walked back into the living room. She looked through her uncle’s desk and then, with her hands on her hips, she stood staring at the bookcase.
Teplov was watching her. As with the pen, he again noticed that something had caught her eye. What, though, he couldn’t tell.
Before he could ask her what it was, she pointed to a large atlas covered in green fabric. It was out of place, its spine unaligned with its neighbors, as if someone had failed to properly put it back.
Teplov stepped forward and removed it. Casually, he flipped through several pages and then tossed the book on the couch.
Damn it, Christina thought to herself.
“Did I miss something?” Teplov suddenly asked, returning to the book.
It was as if he had read her mind. Nevertheless, she needed to play dumb. “You asked me to look for things that were out of place.”
“Interesting that you chose this atlas.”
“Why is that interesting?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said, as this time, he flipped through the pages much more carefully. When he got to the part where she had removed one of the maps, he stopped.
Christina felt a bad feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.
“There appears to be a page missing,” Teplov declared. “That doesn’t seem like something a neat freak would do, much less a man who owned his own GPS.”
He looked at her and Christina stared right back at him. The alcohol was continuing to embolden her.
“Doctor Volkova,” he asked, “why would your uncle pull pages out of such a beautiful atlas?”
Christina shrugged. “He was an old man. They do weird things.”
“I agree,” said Teplov, as he produced the missing page and held it up. “My men found this buried between the seats of your car.”
She wanted to curse, but the words wouldn’t come. Despite the circumstance, all she could think of was Harvath. She had failed him, but she knew that as bad as things now were, she still might be able to buy him a few more minutes with which to escape.
But before she could say anything, Teplov approached her, drew back his fist, and punched her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.
As she doubled over in pain, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and painfully jerked back her head.
“Out of respect for your deceased husband, I’m going to give you one, and only one, chance,” he hissed. “Where the fuck is Harvath?”
CHAPTER 45
* * *
* * *
ON APPROACH
FINNISH AIR SPACE
We heard from Harvath,” Nicholas explained as The Carlton Group jet was about to land at Helsinki Airport.
“Thank God,” replied Sloane Ashby, who had taken the call over the plane’s encrypted satellite phone. “Where is he? Is he okay?”
“What’s going on?” Chase asked.
“Harvath made contact,” she answered as she put the call on speaker and everyone moved closer. “We’re all listening now. What do we know?”
“There’s not much,” Nicholas replied. “Apparently, he was in the Russian town of Nivsky, headed west.”
Haney pulled up a map on his laptop. “Nivsky. Got it,” he said, projecting the image onto the screens in the cabin. “About 250 kilometers south of the city of Murmansk and, as the crow flies, about eighty kilometers due east of the Finnish border.”
“In other words,” stated Staelin, “deep in Indian country.”
“What else do you have?” asked Barton, as he adjusted the pitch on his seat so it matched the seat across from him. “Is he traveling by car? On foot? Is he injured?”
“That’s all we know,” said Nicholas. “The message came in as a comment on Instagram using one of our prearranged codes. It was posted from an account belonging to a doctor in Nivsky—Christina Volkova. She appears to be in charge of a medical clinic there. If she’s helping Harvath, it might explain why there wasn’t a lot of detail. He’d want to protect her and limit her exposure.”
“What’s the plan, then?” asked Matt Morrison, as the plane eased out of its descent and began to climb.
“We’re diverting you to Lapland Air Command in Rovaniemi. There, you’ll meet up with a representative from the Ministry of Defense who will travel north with you to Sodankylä.”
Haney found it on his map. “It’s practically a straight shot from Nivsky—just an additional eighty klicks after crossing the Finnish border.”
“It’s also,” Nicholas added, “home to a battalion of the Finnish Army’s Jaeger Brigade.”
“Those guys are badass,” stated Gage. “We trained with them when I was in Fifth Group.”
“So did we,” said Haney, pointing at himself and Morrison. “They know their stuff when it comes to arctic warfare and equipment.”
“That’s why President Porter has asked for their help,” Nicholas continued. “The Finns, though, are skittish about supporting an incursion into Russia. They don’t want to provoke a confrontation, which means the scope of their involvement is still being worked out. Be ready for a lot of last-minute decisions.
“Now, to give them top cover, this is being treated as a downed pilot exercise. The Zero-Three-Hundred team is being moved to Luleå in northern Sweden, where they will be on call with the Skibird and F-22 Raptors.”
“The Finns wouldn’t allow them in?” asked Sloane.
“Like I said, they’re skittish. And on this issue, the President agrees. The Russians have a lot of eyes in Finland, particularly when it comes to movements of military equipment. While we can hide some SEALs from DEVGRU, we can’t hide F-22s and a Skibird. Moscow would know something was up. It’s much better for our purposes if we slide in under the radar.”
“How exactly are we going to slide into Russia?” asked Barton.
“That’s Jaeger’s area of expertise. First, we have to pinpoint Harvath’s location. Best-case scenario, he makes contact again and is able to give us his precise coordi
nates. In the meantime. we’re working on getting a satellite overhead.
“The Finns have also stepped up. As the most forested country in Europe, their 832-mile border with Russia is notoriously difficult to patrol. They have invested a lot in new drone technology and are going to make some of their best equipment available to us.”
“So in the meantime,” asked Morrison, “we just wait?”
“Negative,” replied Nicholas. “Our goal is to get you outfitted and inserted into Russia ASAP. We don’t want to wait for Harvath to come to you. We want you to go to him.”
The team was in agreement and there was a chorus of “Roger that,” which resonated through the cabin.
Being one of the older, most experienced team members, Staelin was one of its most pragmatic. In his estimation, this operation was going to either be a stunning success or an unimaginable failure that would be taught throughout the Special Operations community as a “what not to do.”
Though they were paid handsomely to take on high-risk, short-notice assignments, this one gave him a really bad feeling.
Normally with hostage scenarios, you found out where the subject was being held and you inserted a spotter team. While they kept 24/7 watch on the location to make sure the hostage wasn’t moved, an exact replica of the target was constructed back in the United States. There, a takedown team rehearsed until they knew every door, window, stairwell, and flagpole on the property.
When it came time for the assault, the operators were as familiar with the location as they were with their own homes.
They also knew that hostage-takers often were under orders to kill the hostage if any rescue attempt was made. It created an added layer of danger, and stress, but that’s what made them the best. They were completely focused, high-end professional athletes, able to turn on a dime and adjust to real-time changes on the field. Nobody did these kinds of things better than they did.
Nevertheless, this kind of operation was nothing but wild cards. With each unknown, the odds of failure rose exponentially. To say what they were about to do was exceedingly risky would be a gross understatement.
Haney felt the same way. In fact, he had pulled Staelin aside, shortly after takeoff, to share his reservations.
As the senior operatives, the mission planning and decision-making would come down to them. It was a tremendous responsibility, but one they were more than capable of taking on.
With all of the unknowns, there was one thing they did know, one thing they agreed on: that no matter how dangerous, no matter how bad the odds, Harvath would risk it all to come for them. He was one of them, their brother. They weren’t going to leave him behind enemy lines.
“So,” said Nicholas, wrapping up. “Does anyone else have any questions?”
Staelin leaned in toward the phone, wanting to make sure he was perfectly heard. “Just one thing,” he said. “What are the rules of engagement?”
“There aren’t any.”
“So weapons free?”
“Weapons free,” Nicholas confirmed, granting approval to engage any target with lethal force. “The only thing that matters is bringing Harvath back.”
CHAPTER 46
* * *
* * *
MURMANSK OBLAST
Harvath was delirious. He couldn’t remember if he’d heard the dogs first or had felt the rough hands as they yanked him to his feet. They were carrying guns.
He did remember someone making a big deal about his shotgun and snatching it up so that he couldn’t reach it.
In a sense, he was relieved to have been captured. He hoped they’d put a bullet in his head and just be done with him, but in the back of his mind he knew that wasn’t likely.
His brain was foggy and his eyesight was almost nonexistent. It was nearly impossible to tell what was going on.
One of the men, yelling in Russian, slapped him around. He had suffered worse in his SERE training. The more the man yelled, the more the dogs barked. Someone patted him down. They then took off his skis and tied him up. After that, he had blacked out.
When he awoke, he could still hear the dogs. They were someplace close. Did Wagner even have dogs? It was possible, he supposed. Plenty of military units used them. But dogs meant any escape was next to impossible. It sounded as if they had a lot of them.
His vision was slow to return. He attempted to move his arms and to his surprise, he was no longer tied down.
When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that he was in a cabin of some sort. It smelled like clay and chimney smoke. A fire crackled in the fireplace.
Most of his clothing had been removed. He was lying in a bed, with a compress laid across his head. A fire burned warm and bright nearby.
At a small table, an older woman sat with her back to him, humming. Next to a leather satchel were what looked like plastic Ziplocs filled with dried herbs. He had no idea where he was or what had happened.
His head felt as if it had been split open with an axe. He tried to sit up, but that only made it worse. Closing his eyes, he fell back against his pillow.
When he opened them again, the woman was standing over him. A large cup was in her hand. “Drink,” she said in English, offering it to him.
Seeing the distress he was in, she set the cup aside and propped him up. Then, she held the cup up to his mouth so he could drink.
It was a broth of some sort. “Spaseba,” he said, after he had finished.
“It’s okay. I speak English.”
“Where am I?”
“In the woods.”
“In the woods where?”
“Outside the village of Adjágas,” she replied. “You’re safe here.”
Adjágas, though, wasn’t the village he was supposed to be in. “I need to get to Friddja,” he said, trying to get up.
“Relax,” she responded, easing him back down. “Everything is going to be okay.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I think I do,” she said, removing the note Christina had written and handing it to him. “I’m Sini.”
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, taking a better look around the room. Near the front door he could see his rucksack, along with his shotgun.
“The men who found you in the snow, they were trying to figure out who you were. They searched your pockets.”
“Why did they bring me here?”
“They’re from Adjágas. They were on their way home from a hunt. Their dogs were tired. It was better to come here and then send word to me in Friddja.”
“I remember being tied up.”
Sini nodded. “You were in bad shape. They wrapped you in blankets and secured you to one of their sleds so you wouldn’t roll off.”
She had a kind, craggy face and a gentle voice. Harvath reached for the cup and she held it to his lips again so he could drink.
When he had finished, he asked, “What about Christina? Have you heard anything from her?”
Sini shook her head.
He looked at his watch and tried to figure out how long it had been since he had left Nivsky. “I can’t stay here.”
The Sámi woman smiled. “It’s late. It’s also very cold outside and you are in no condition to travel. Let’s wait until morning. Maybe Christina will be here. We can discuss everything then.”
Harvath didn’t have the will to fight. He also didn’t have the strength to charge back out into the snow—not tonight at least. So he gave in.
“May I?” Sini asked, pointing at the blanket that covered him.
He nodded and she pulled it down in order to reexamine his wounds. Slowly, using the items on the table, she began replacing the poultices she had applied to him earlier.
“Are you a doctor, too?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “In my language, I’m called noaidi, a healer.”
“Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?”
“I grew up in the Swedish part of Lapland. We all studied English in school.�
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“How did you end up in Russia?”
“It was part of my calling as a noaidi. I’m originally from here. We left because of communist persecution. Eventually, I felt compelled to come back.”
“And Christina? How do you know each other?”
“The Sámi people embrace both traditional and modern medicine. Christina has always been good about coming out if there’s a situation I can’t handle. I guess you could say that we began as colleagues, but now are close friends. She’s a very special person.”
Harvath agreed. Christina was special.
Pulling his blankets back up, Sini removed his compress and walked into the kitchen to prepare another, along with a special kind of tea.
Returning with the new compress, she laid it across his forehead. “Your body has absorbed a lot of punishment. It needs rest. This will help you sleep,” she said, as she raised the cup, now filled with tea, to his mouth.
Harvath was grateful for the broth, the poultices, and especially the rescue. He knew he was not one hundred percent and that his body needed repairing. He also knew that he couldn’t stay here. He needed to get moving. For the moment, though, he’d gladly take anything she offered that would help him recover.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked.
He looked around the room once more. “Is there a computer or a cell phone? Maybe a radio of some sort?”
The Sámi woman smiled and shook her head. “We still do things the old way here. Word travels fast, but it travels by foot.”
Pointing at his shotgun, he asked, “Would you please bring that to me? I dropped it in the snow and need to clean it.”
“It will be fine until tomorrow. Like I said, you’re safe here. Nothing is going to happen to you.”
He didn’t doubt her sincerity, but she had no clue about the two dozen mercenaries who had landed in Nivsky and were actively hunting him. He needed to get across the border. But it wasn’t going to happen tonight.
At best, he’d be well enough to strike off in the morning. And while he didn’t like having to operate during daylight hours, if Sini and her friends were willing to help him, he might be able to make it to the border. Already, a plan was beginning to form in his mind.