by Brad Thor
“Try me.”
“It’s a coastal village, up above the Arctic Circle, called Kirkenes.”
Instead of responding, Harvath waved the waitress back over. “I’d like to see the wine list, please.” As the waitress walked away to fetch one, he turned to Sølvi and said, “I hope you brought your credit card.”
CHAPTER 12
“How do you know about Kirkenes?” Sølvi asked, amazed. “We’ve never even discussed it.”
“No, but Holidae and I have.”
“When?”
“This morning, actually.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That the Chinese are trying to buy their way into the Arctic. That they have their eyes set on Kirkenes as the European port for their Polar Silk Route. And that Norway doesn’t like America trying to get involved.”
“Anything else?” she asked, taking the wine list from Harvath and opening it up to the whites.
“Yes,” he said, leaning toward her, almost obscuring the list from her view. “She mentioned the deal has been put on hold because the parties are having problems with something called the Arctic corridor. Apparently, they could unload the ships in Kirkenes, but for the project to work, they need high-speed rail lines to be constructed. They can’t get those rail lines approved because of staunch resistance from the Sámi.”
“Really?” she replied, appearing more interested in the wine list than him.
“Yes. It seems a very cleverly crafted piece of misinformation steeled the entire Sámi population against it. Something about the Chinese allegedly attempting to bioengineer a sickness to kill all the Sámi reindeer.”
“Hmmmmm,” she said distractedly. “Fascinating.”
He knew her too well. Their mentors had been close friends and had been cut from the same cloth.
When her mentor had been killed, she had been tapped to take over for him and run the NIS division he had created. It was a highly creative, outside-the-box department, less bound by rules and regulations than anything else in Norwegian Intelligence. It was very similar to what he was doing with The Carlton Group.
“It’s more than fascinating,” he said. “It’s brilliant.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she replied, looking up and nodding to the waitress that she was ready to make a selection. “Something that brilliant had to have come from the mind of a really smart, really good-looking Norwegian.”
“Or someone really sick and twisted who probably doesn’t get asked on a lot of dates.”
“As the most beautiful woman in Norway, I couldn’t possibly know what that’s like.”
He was about to reply, when the waitress showed up to take their order. Sølvi indicated what wine she wanted as well as what she’d be having for lunch.
Harvath hadn’t had much time to peruse the menu, but when he saw the words Lamb Shank, he was sold.
Handing his menu back, he waited for the waitress to be out of earshot before asking, “Is it common practice for the Norwegian Intelligence Service to interfere with foreign investment in Norway?”
“First,” she replied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Second, Norway is at a crossroads. China’s retribution for the Nobel Peace Prize was very painful economically. Now that relations have begun to normalize, there are certain politicians who will say yes to anything China asks, just to avoid a repeat.
“In addition, there are still other politicians who were avowed lovers of China before the prize was awarded. These two groups have begun to knit themselves together. Standing in the breach is a more realistic group of politicians who want to make sure Norway’s security is put first.”
“And which group do you answer to?”
Sølvi smiled. “As always, I answer to Odin and only Odin.”
Harvath smiled back. Odin was the king of the Norse gods. It was also the call sign for Ivar Stang, Director of the Norwegian Intelligence Service. The moniker was highly apropos, considering that the coat of arms for the NIS depicted two ravens: Huginn and Muninn—Thought and Mind—which, according to Norse mythology, were said to bring Odin his information.
Harvath sensed it was about as much of an answer as he was going to get on the subject, so he changed tack. “What can you tell me about Kirkenes and Yevgeny Sarov?”
“He was an interesting choice for a diplomatic position.”
“How so?”
“He had only one previous posting. In Kazakhstan. Less than a year.”
“What did he do before that?”
“I’ll give you one guess,” she said.
“Russian Intelligence.”
“Smart boy,” she replied.
“What branch?” he asked.
“Main Intelligence Directorate.”
Known as the GRU, they were Russia’s military intelligence unit and considered Russia’s largest foreign intelligence agency. They were also its most dangerous, and Harvath hated them with a passion.
They had murdered three people very dear to him: his wife, Lara; his mentor, Reed Carlton; and his close friend and colleague Lydia Ryan, who had been running The Carlton Group.
It was said, “Once a GRU operative, always a GRU operative.” If this Sarov character was up to anything nefarious, Harvath would have no problem taking him out, along with Han.
“How big a town is Kirkenes?” he asked.
“It’s small. About two square kilometers.”
“How many inhabitants?”
“Around three thousand five hundred.”
“So why do the Russians have a consulate there?”
“Kirkenes sits on a peninsula at the farthest northeastern part of Norway near the Russian-Norwegian border. Norwegians cross over into Russia to buy cheaper gas, cigarettes, and alcohol, and Russians cross over into Norway to buy diapers and Apple products that they can sell for a markup back home.
“People also go back and forth to visit friends and relatives. If you live within fifty kilometers of either side of the border, you are entitled to a special border crossing permit. Anyone else needs a specific tourist visa. Officially, that’s why the Russian Consulate exists. The Norwegians have their own consulate on the other side, in Murmansk.”
“Unofficially, what’s the reason the Russian Consulate exists?”
“To provide support for its network of spies in the region.”
“How many spies are we talking about?”
“We project, on any given day, that there are up to five hundred Russian citizens in Kirkenes and the surrounding border area. How many of them are spies? That’s much harder to ascertain.”
“How do you even watch that many people?”
“It’s impossible. We don’t have the manpower. It’s also contrary to Norwegian values. If we followed every single Russian tourist that entered our country, we’d be no better than the old Soviet Union.”
“Agreed, but other than border defenses, what’s there for anyone to see on your side, much less spy on?”
Sølvi raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know?”
“I’m a little rusty on far-flung villages. It took me all summer just to find a good place in Oslo for margaritas. Humor me.”
“Vardø, the easternmost town in Norway. It sits on an island called Vardøya, which is connected to the mainland by tunnel. Vardø is home to a joint Norwegian Intelligence Service and American National Security Agency radar system called GLOBUS.”
“The one that the Russians have been freaking out over?” he asked, familiar with the system that monitored Russian naval activity, just not its precise geographic location in Norway.
“That’s it. In fact, the newest iteration, GLOBUS 3, has just been constructed and brought online. In protest, the Russians moved their SSC-6 coastal missile system to the Sredny Peninsula, just seventy kilometers from Vardø.”
“But the SSC-6 is a supersonic anti-ship cruise missile.”
“Which can also take out land targets,” she clarified, “up to one hundred and
fifty kilometers away.”
“Putting the GLOBUS facility directly within striking distance.”
Sølvi nodded. “Moscow believes the system unfairly upends the balance of power. Their Arctic submarine fleet has always been their insurance policy. If Russia was ever hit with a nuclear attack, they could order the subs to sea and, just off their enemy’s shore, retaliate with a nuclear strike of their own. Via Vardø and the GLOBUS system, that capability has now been eroded. They cannot come or go without us knowing what they’re up to. Figuring out a way to move their submarines undetected has become a top priority.”
“No doubt, but what’s the point of repositioning the coastal missile system?” asked Harvath. “If Russia hits GLOBUS, that’s immediately an act of war, and the first thing we’re going to assume is that they did it to hide submarine movements.”
“True, but by then the horse, so to speak, is out of the barn. And once those subs are out of their barns, they’re much harder to track and interdict.”
“How do you know it’s not just posturing by the Russians?”
“It could be,” she allowed. “They’re bullies. They like to flex their muscles and try to intimidate us. Recently, they launched bombers from the Kola Peninsula and conducted mock runs on Vardø.”
Harvath shook his head. These kinds of acts were straight out of the Russian playbook and provocative as hell. They were also an impotent version of chest thumping. The Russians had done similar, dangerously close stunts against American fighters, bombers, and ships in international waters. It said more about Russia’s increasing weakness than its strength. But that weakness made them unpredictable and even more dangerous. Some experts felt that a nuclear confrontation was more likely now than at any point during the Cold War.
“Did they cross into Norwegian airspace?” he asked.
“No. They didn’t have to. They came right up to the line, which was close enough to launch their weapons had they wanted to while still being over their own territory.”
She was right to be concerned. In a war with Russia, it was the prevailing belief that Russia would mount such devastating attacks on America’s allies that America would seek to de-escalate before nukes started landing on New York, D.C., Miami, and Chicago.
The Russians, like the Chinese, were devious. Not as smart, but devious nonetheless. An attack on Vardø, early on in a conflict, would buy them some valuable time to get their subs to sea and heighten the fear factor for the United States.
Pivoting back to Han, he asked, “Does the CCTV footage show my guy meeting with Sarov or just in the same area?”
“We’re not like London with its ring of steel. There aren’t cameras on every corner. They were both just seen in the same area. But, to be honest, I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
“Neither do I,” he replied, deciding to read her in. “So why would my guy, who isn’t a ghost, by the way—”
“He’s not? Who is he?”
“Captain Han Guang. He works for China’s Ministry of State Security. Former Special Operations. Looks exactly like the person I was sent after. Apparently, they’re cousins.”
“He’s a spy, then?”
Harvath nodded. “And also, according to our sources, a saboteur.”
“So why is he in Norway, hanging around the same neighborhood as the Russian Consul General from Kirkenes?” she wondered aloud.
“That’s the exact question I’d like to ask him myself.”
“First, you’d have to find him.”
“What about his passport? Was it diplomatic or a standard People’s Republic of China?”
“Standard People’s Republic.”
“Do Chinese citizens need a visa to visit Norway?” he asked.
“They do. His was processed by the Norwegian Consulate General in Guangzhou over a month ago. I checked.”
“His trip was planned, then. Not spur-of-the-moment. And while there’s nothing stopping him from staying at the Chinese Ambassador’s residence here in Oslo, if the MSS didn’t go to the trouble of providing him with a diplomatic passport, they probably aren’t going to risk tying him directly to the Ambassador as a guest.”
“Which means,” said Sølvi, “he’s either in a hotel under the name on his passport, or a safe house.”
“Do you have a way of checking hotel registrations?”
“I do, but I’d rather not.”
“Why not?”
“Gathering CCTV footage in light of our privacy laws is one thing. It’s not easy, but the rules are not as rigorous. The taxi video was more difficult and I had to use a cutout for that, but it was doable. When you call a hotel and ask about a guest, though, the request gets elevated to a manager. The manager then has the responsibility to confirm which law enforcement agency they are speaking with and to confirm the name and department of the officer making the request.”
“In other words, it’s a real bureaucratic pain in the ass.”
“More than that,” she said. “It’s too easy to get caught. But there is another way.”
“What is it?” he asked as he saw the waitress approaching with their bottle of wine.
“Finding a needle in a haystack is all about correctly identifying the haystack. I think I can get you that far, but then you’re going to need a specialist, somebody really skilled in IT. I believe you have someone who fits that bill.”
Harvath nodded. He did have someone all right. In fact, he had the absolute best.
The only question was whether or not, at 50,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean, traveling at Mach 0.925 toward Norway, the little man could summon enough computing power.
CHAPTER 13
Harvath didn’t want to waste any time. Clinking glasses with Sølvi, he took one sip of wine before stepping outside to make a call.
“How critical is it?” Nicholas asked over the encrypted satellite phone aboard The Carlton Group’s new Gulfstream G700.
“Priority one,” Harvath replied. “It may prove to be our best chance of getting the jump on Han. Can you do it in-flight?”
A semi-reformed hacker, Nicholas had once made quite a lucrative career for himself in the purchase, sale, and theft of highly sensitive black-market intelligence. He now functioned as the team’s IT specialist, and Sølvi had a theory that might help identify their haystack.
There were a handful of hotels in Oslo that went out of their way to cater to Chinese tourists. They made sure to include certain Chinese comfort foods on their menus, understood and were respectful of Chinese culture, always kept at least one staff member on duty around the clock who spoke Chinese, and aggressively marketed to tour companies in China.
If Han was half the spy they believed him to be, he would hide in plain sight. He would rely on weak, undiscerning Western eyes to lump all the Chinese faces they encountered into a single indistinguishable blur. The best place for a single tree not to be seen was in the middle of a forest. Sølvi was certain he would choose one of the hotels on her list.
Nicholas sat his less-than-three-foot-tall frame in one of the jet’s plush, leather chairs. His giant dogs, Argos and Draco, lay on the carpeted cabin floor at his feet. “Several of the hotels you’ve given me are chains, which means they’ll have their own essential reservation systems. The boutiques will have contracted it out.”
“Can you access them?”
“Given enough time,” the little man said, opening his laptop and checking a banking balance. “Though there might be an express route we can take.”
“Tell me,” said Harvath.
“The first step would be to search for log-ins and passwords for sale on the dark web. If we can find any that would grant us access to the systems, we’re golden.”
“And if you can’t find any?”
“I’ve got a pretty sophisticated group out of Belarus that can quickly assemble a down-and-dirty phishing campaign. We direct it at each hotel in question. It’ll take more money and some extra time, but it can provide more than just rese
rvation info. If we get someone on staff to bite, we can access that hotel’s ‘bible,’ their property management system, which will give us all the guests’ personal info as well as what rooms they’re in.”
“Get started on both.”
“Will do,” said Nicholas. “And just to be on the safe side, I need you to reach out to Lawlor and have him double the amount in the cryptocurrency account.”
“I’ll send him a message now,” Harvath replied. “Reach out to me when you have something.”
After ending the call, he sent a message to Lawlor with Nicholas’s request. As soon as he received confirmation that it was in process, he stepped back inside the restaurant and rejoined Sølvi.
“Everything good?” she asked.
“Nicholas liked your idea,” he replied, sitting back down. “He’s already working on it.”
“What idea? I didn’t give you anything.”
Harvath smiled. “Right. I forgot. My bad.”
Touching glasses once more, they enjoyed their lunch before skipping dessert and both heading in opposite directions.
* * *
Back at the apartment, Harvath tucked the bottle of Montrachet in the fridge and set up his laptop on the kitchen island.
On the opposite counter, a digital photo frame cycled through pictures he and Sølvi had taken over the summer. They certainly had made a lot of memories.
As his computer came to life, he poured himself a cup of coffee, plugged in his SD card reader, and inserted the card Sølvi had handed him.
After only a few minutes of watching the footage, it was clear that Han was trying to throw off any surveillance he might have had. Harvath particularly liked the reversible two-color blazer he was wearing, which could also become a vest when the detachable sleeves were removed.
So where the hell was he headed—and why was he so intent on not being followed?
Harvath rolled backward and forward through the footage, paying close attention to what happened after he stepped out of the taxi.
He watched as Han walked and he followed. All of it textbook. Then had come the grand boulevard, the tram, and the moment Han had effectively disappeared. There was no further footage—no indication of where he had gone.