Black Ice

by Brad Thor

  “Don’t bother,” Mercer said. “We’re going to strip them naked and I’m going to burn the clothes at another site on our way out of the forest.”

  “I’m beginning to think you have done this before.”

  Mercer smiled. “While I’m having all of this fun, what are you going to be up to?”

  “Awaiting instructions.”

  “The old Hurry up and wait. I don’t miss that.”

  “I think in this case the emphasis is going to be on hurry,” said Harvath. “What do you know about Svalbard?”

  “Cold and very dangerous. You wouldn’t need a case of peanut butter up there. The polar bears would practically pay you for the pleasure of munching on those corpses. Those fricking things actually stalk humans. Give me wolves any day.”

  “Trust me, wolves are no bargain.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree.” Mercer smiled. “What’s the assignment?”

  “I’m waiting for orders, but I expect I’m going to have a little sit-down with the Russian Consul General in Barentsburg.”

  “A nice sit-down or a not-so-nice sit-down?”

  “I don’t think he’s going to be happy to see me. And I think he’s going to be even less happy about answering my questions.”

  “I hope you brought more rugged clothes than what you have on now. How are you planning on getting there?”

  “We’ve got our jet.”

  “You’ll need the governor’s permission to land. They’ve got a ton of restrictions. Could take days, depending on what his staff have on their desks. Even if you got a quick turnaround, if anything goes sideways with your op, you’re going to be a prime suspect and the tail number on your plane is going to get flagged on every Interpol-connected computer around the world.”

  Harvath looked at him. “How do people normally get there?”

  “SAS flies there direct from Tromsø,” said Mercer, looking at his watch, “but you’ve already missed today’s flight. Your best bet is to grab the flight from here to Tromsø tomorrow morning and connect—if, that is, you can get a seat. Those flights are often booked well in advance.”

  “What about by boat?”

  “It’s five hundred nautical miles from here. Basically, halfway between Norway and the North Pole. We might be able to find one of the local fishing trawlers to take you, but with the weather that’s coming, all of them are returning to port. I don’t know that we could find somebody crazy enough to take you. If you can hold till morning, that’s probably going to be the most prudent option.”

  “I haven’t been tasked yet,” Harvath said. “Nevertheless, it’d probably be a good idea to start asking around about a trawler.”

  “I can make some calls.”

  “Thank you. I should also see if there are any seats on that flight tomorrow.”

  “I’d do that right away,” said Mercer. “Then at least you’ve got a backup plan.”

  “And the sporting goods store you’re headed to—can I pick up more Svalbard-appropriate gear there?”

  The ex–CIA man nodded. “They’re an excellent outfitter.”

  “Let me hand out assignments to the team and get the airline ticket process going,” Harvath said, turning to walk inside. “And then we can head out.”

  “Sounds good,” Mercer concurred. “I’ll be in my truck, getting the boat search started. And by the way,” he added, “bring your credit card. This place ain’t cheap.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Kirkenes, Mercer explained as they drove, was the jumping-off point for the High Arctic. The last slice of real civilization before entering an almost dystopian, alien land.

  “Have you ever been to Svalbard?” Harvath asked.

  “Three times,” the man answered. “All for operations.”

  “How’d they go?”

  “Badly. If I never see that place again, it’ll be too soon.”

  Harvath smiled. “Glad I asked.”

  “The weather is going to be terrible up there. I already told you it’ll be cold, but you’ll probably get sleet or freezing rain. No matter how bad it gets, always remember the local motto: Svalbard. It can always get worse.”

  “The tourism office ought to put you on retainer. I can’t wait to see the place.”

  “Plenty of people love it. They come back every year. I’m not one of them.”

  “Is the weather that bad?” asked Harvath.

  “Everything is that bad. Svalbard is this weird place where, when things are going well, they’re going well. But when things go bad, they keep getting worse. Whether it’s the weather, the Russians, whatever. Our joke was that it wasn’t the snowstorms you had to worry about on Svalbard; it was the shit storms. The place, in my opinion, is cursed.”

  “I know next to nothing about it. Apart from the fact that you’re not a fan, what can you tell me?”

  “The main island has three towns,” Mercer replied. “None of them are connected by roads. There are roads once you get to a town, but to get there you have to either go by boat or wait until winter and use a snow-mobile.”

  “That’s nuts. You can’t 4x4?”

  “Nope. You’ll destroy the ecosystem.”

  “Wait a second,” Harvath said, remembering something he had read. “Svalbard is where the doomsday seed bunker is, right? If the world ever suffers some sort of apocalypse, seeds for almost every fruit, vegetable, flower, tree, what-have-you, are stored there.”

  “Correct. The Svalbard Global Seed Vault is about three klicks outside of the main town of Longyearbyen. The Norwegians spent nearly ten million U.S. dollars to build it, and anyone who wants to store seeds there can do so for free.”

  “Why build it there?”

  “The main island has no tectonic activity and the location of the vault is over a hundred and thirty meters above sea level, so if the ice caps ever melt, the idea is that the seeds will be safe.”

  “Interesting.”

  “The whole history of the place is full of weird facts and fascinating stories. It was discovered by a Dutch explorer, Barentsz, in the sixteenth century, but it wasn’t settled until the seventeenth century when whalers set up communities there to operate out of when pushing further north in search of their quarry. There were also a lot of hunters—many of them Russians—going after walrus, polar bear, and fox.

  “By the late nineteenth century, it had become a hot Arctic tourism destination and a base for Arctic exploration. Coal was also discovered.

  “In 1910, lots of talk started picking up about who Svalbard really belonged to, but the talks were tabled with the outbreak of World War One. It wasn’t until after the war and the Paris Peace Accords that the Svalbard Treaty was signed, granting sovereignty over the archipelago to Norway. The interesting twist, though, was that all the nations party to the signing were granted equal fishing, hunting, and mineral exploration rights.

  “It belongs to Norway, but other nations are allowed to exploit its resources?” Harvath asked, a bit surprised.

  Mercer nodded. “You had countries as far away as Japan, India, and New Zealand sign on. No one can say the Norwegians aren’t some of the most generous people on the planet.

  “Anyway, part of the deal is that Svalbard has to remain demilitarized. That largely went out the window in World War Two when the Nazis occupied Norway. With the help of the Brits, the Norwegian government-in-exile agreed that Svalbard’s settlements should be leveled so as not to leave anything behind that could be of value to Hitler.

  “The Nazis intermittently built weather stations on Svalbard, only to be chased off. The Norwegian government-in-exile established a garrison there, only to have it destroyed by the Nazis. Then the Norwegians reestablished it. It was this whole cycle.

  “In fact, the soldiers based at the final Nazi weather station on Svalbard were the last German troops to surrender in World War Two.”

  “How do the Russians and Barentsburg tie in?” asked Harvath.

  “After the war, the Norwegians reesta
blished the settlements at Longyearbyen and Ny-Ålesund, while the Soviet Union focused on Barentsburg, which they had purchased from the Dutch in the 1930s—the main focus of which is mining coal.

  “The Russians built a lot of ugly, Soviet-style buildings there. One of the wildest is a space-age–looking sports complex with an old gym and an enormous rusting swimming pool, which, when the boilers aren’t broken, is filled with heated seawater.

  “The village itself is comprised of about four hundred inhabitants, most of whom are coal miners from eastern Ukraine. Because of the terrible Arctic conditions, they get paid more than they would back home, but none of them stay more than a couple of years.

  “The Russian mining company Trust Arktikugol pretty much owns and runs the place. Compared to the Ukrainian laborers, the Russians in Barentsburg consider themselves white-collar. The only thing more omnipresent than vodka in that place is coal dust.”

  “What’s security like?”

  “Because of the polar bears, almost everyone carries a rifle. Maybe not always in town, but definitely if you’re going to set foot outside the city limits. It’s an absolute must.”

  “Police?”

  “Practically nonexistent. There’s no crime. You’re not even allowed to live on Svalbard if you don’t have a full-time job. If you’re retired and crazy enough to want to live there, you have to have proof of income. If you can’t take care of yourself, they won’t have you.”

  “That sounds rather un-Norwegian.”

  “It’s generous social services and cradle-to-grave care in Norway proper, but in the brutal High Arctic, it’s survival of the fittest. Speaking of which, if I’m the Chinese, I’m going to do as much on my turf as possible.”

  “Meaning?” asked Harvath.

  “Meaning I’d make the Russians come to me on Svalbard,” said Mercer. “I’d make them come to Ny-Ålesund, where their scientific research station is.”

  “They sit on the Arctic Council and they have a research station on Svalbard?”

  “They’re one of ten nations, including the Norwegians, who have research facilities there. It’s considered the northernmost town in the world. Like Barentsburg, it was also a mining town at one point, but smaller.”

  “How small?”

  “Currently? Year-round? Thirty to thirty-five residents. But in summer the population explodes to about one hundred and twenty, the bulk of which are engaged in research.”

  “Sounds like an easy place to hide scientific equipment,” said Harvath.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mercer laughed. “There’s all sorts of stuff up there. You could hide almost anything right in plain sight and nobody would give it a second thought.”

  “Good to know, but for right now, I have my sights set on Barentsburg and the Consul General.”

  “Totally understood. That’s where the intel points. I’d do the same. If you get tasked with going, have you thought about how you’ll handle it?”

  Harvath’s phone vibrated. He looked down and read the message. “For starters,” he said, “it looks like I’ll be going it alone. I got the last and only seat on tomorrow’s flight. My guy is now working on getting me from the airport in Longyearbyen to Barentsburg.”

  “I can tell you from experience that the consulate is practically Fort Knox. It sits higher up the mountain than anything else, surrounded by a truckload of cameras and a wrought-iron fence. Whatever you’re looking to do, it should be in town. Tomorrow’s Friday. All of them take a long, boozy lunch. The Consul General won’t be hard to find.

  “Aside from the company canteen, there are only a handful of restaurants in Barentsburg. My guess is he’ll be at the Red Bear Pub & Brewery, or about a block up at the Rijpsburg Fish Restaurant in the Barentsburg Hotel. Just look for the vehicle parked outside with plates marked CD for Corps Diplomatique. They’ll be followed by four or five numbers—all in yellow—on a reflective blue plate.”

  “Then all I have to do is figure out how to convince his security detail to take the rest of the day off,” Harvath said.

  Mercer smiled again. “I may be able to help on that.”

  CHAPTER 46

  The sporting goods shop reminded Harvath of what a dry goods store on the edge of the Yukon might have looked like in the 1800s. They stocked every conceivable item someone could need for an expedition into the High Arctic.

  This time of year, average temperatures in Barentsburg ranged from 45 degrees Fahrenheit to 38. But, true to the inhospitable picture Mercer had painted of Svalbard, the archipelago was expecting a storm system to move in. Temperatures in the next twenty-four hours were forecast to drop to below freezing.

  Harvath started his shopping by selecting a mountaineering jacket—something windproof and waterproof that he could layer clothes underneath to stay warm. Just as important, he wanted a muted color—nothing neon. He wanted a hue that would blend in rather than stand out against the landscape. At this time of year, before the snows had set in, that meant greens and browns. He found a weatherproof jacket from a Norwegian company called Norrøna in dark olive and tried it on. Satisfied with the fit, he picked up a pair of their trekking trousers in the same color, a wool cap, neck gaiter, heavier socks, a fleece, and a pair of gloves. The boots he was already wearing would be fine.

  Mercer met him at the counter, where he had already stacked up a few items of his own: stormproof matches, a headlamp, a small weapons cleaning kit, cold weather lubricant, batteries, camping snacks, a space blanket, a first aid kit, and a cow call.

  “He’s paying,” the ex–CIA man said as Harvath walked up and handed his items over to the clerk. Then, looking down at Harvath’s boots, he added, “We’ll also need a can of waterproofing spray.”

  Once everything was placed in bags and paid for, they left the shop, returned to Mercer’s SUV, and headed back to the safe house.

  Harvath took stock of where everything stood. Chase had picked up the peanut butter. Staelin had fished the bullets out of the dead bodies, and Haney had helped him remove the fourth corpse from the barn and load it into the trunk. Nicholas had an update from Lawlor.

  Arrangements had been made for Han and Sarov to get medical treatment for their gunshot wounds at Landstuhl—the overseas medical hospital run by the U.S. Army—before bringing them to the United States.

  Lawlor wanted a four-person security contingent, including Staelin as medic, to fly with them down to Germany. Harvath could choose which team members would go, but Lawlor wanted them wheels up before dark. Nicholas had already informed the flight crew to begin prepping the jet.

  Harvath decided to send Haney, along with Preisler and Johnson. Chase would help Mercer dispose of the bodies and the wet-work team’s car, while Sloane would remain at the safe house to help Nicholas or Harvath with anything they might need.

  It wasn’t the perfect setup, but it rarely was. Harvath understood the need to get Han and Sarov to a proper medical facility. Bullet wounds were a magnet for infection, and sometimes much worse. There was only so much Staelin could do in the field. Better get them into a top-notch hospital setting.

  Besides, it wasn’t like any of them would be coming along to Svalbard with him. Harvath was going to have to handle that job on his own.

  “We should be back around seven,” said Mercer. “Still up for dinner with me and Hilde? We could do it around eight o’clock and make it an early night, seeing as how you’re on the first flight out in the morning.”

  Harvath looked at his watch. “Sure. Just let me know where to be.”

  “I’ll have Hilde make a reservation and we’ll text it to you.”

  “Sounds good. Be careful out there. Make sure not to get any peanut butter on you.”

  “Not a chance,” Mercer replied, putting on a pair of gloves and sliding into the wet-work team’s car. “See you tonight.”

  Harvath watched as the ex–CIA man drove off, with Chase following in the man’s Outlander.

  Next, Johnson and Preisler climbed
into one of the other SUVs with Han, now clothed, and Sarov. Once all of their gear was loaded, Haney slid behind the wheel and started the vehicle.

  “Remember,” said Staelin, walking over to say goodbye, “if you need us, we’re just a phone call away.”

  “Of course he’s going to need us,” added Haney, leaning out his window. “He always ends up needing us. Can we go now, please? I want to stop and pick up something to eat on the plane.”

  “No stops,” Harvath replied. “That’s an order.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” said Haney, appearing to flip Harvath the bird in his side-view mirror.

  “If he attempts a stop,” Staelin said as the pair shook hands, “I promise to shoot him.”

  “I can always count on you,” said Harvath, who then watched as his colleague got into the vehicle and the team left for the airport.

  Heading inside, he walked up to his room and started a hot shower. When he climbed in, he let the water pound on his neck and shoulders for several minutes. Then he did his back for a moment before raising his arm and turning to the side so the water could work its magic on his ribs.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t feel as good as he thought it would. He stood there anyway, hoping that the heat might yet soothe his aches and pains.

  When he’d had enough, he skipped the cold blast of water he normally exposed himself to, turned off the shower, and stepped out. Wiping the steam from the mirror, he stared at the connected islands of black and blue along his right side. The Russian at the construction site back in Oslo had really done a number on him.

  He shaved, brushed his teeth, and dried his hair before returning to his bedroom. Picking up his phone, he set the alarm. He wanted to see if he could close his eyes for a little bit.

  He lay down on the bed, shut his eyes, and—just as in the car—quickly fell asleep.

  When the alarm woke him, he had been out for several hours. Reaching for his phone, he checked his messages. Mercer and Chase had successfully completed their operation and were on the way back. The name and address of the restaurant Hilde had selected for dinner was also included.