Black Ice

by Brad Thor

  CHAPTER 50

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “I want to see you,” said Baldwin. “The jet is already paid for. Why not? We would have an amazing time.”

  “What about your wife?” Chang replied.

  “What about her? She has been begging for a trip to Bermuda with her girlfriends. And would you believe it?” he chuckled. “Suddenly, I’m more than happy to give that to her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “More sure than I’ve ever been about anything. I’ll put you up at the best hotel. We’ll eat in the best restaurants. It’ll be wonderful.”

  “Before I say yes,” she replied in the breathy voice that made him crazy, “where do we stand on everything?”

  “It’s all on track. The paperwork is being drawn up. The corporation is being created down in Panama. I could even arrange for you to meet Senator Dwyer’s chief of staff and discuss the Alaska LNG Project while you’re here.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea. You’re our representative. You should remain the face of the venture in Washington.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re right. I’m just so excited about the prospect of having you here that I would do anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yes. Anything. All you have to do is name it.”

  Chang had been empowered by Beijing, if the situation presented itself, to press on another matter critical to China’s interests. “Do you know a man at the State Department named Adam Benson?”

  “The U.S. Special Representative for the Arctic? I have met him a couple of times. We have close friends in common. Why? I don’t think he’s going to be a problem in Alaska with the LNG project.”

  “I’m not worried about Alaska. I know you have it well in hand. My clients have a position in another venture, in Norway. A town called Kirkenes. They have been trying to make some headway there, in an infrastructure project at the port, but the United States keeps whispering in Oslo’s ear, telling them not to do the deal.

  “If Mr. Benson could be persuaded to change his mind, my clients would be very grateful. I would be very grateful.”

  “And how, exactly, would you be willing to show your gratitude?” he cooed.

  “Imagine the deal you’re now putting together via Panama and double it.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “Shhhhh,” she scolded him. “I’m not done yet.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You make Alaska and Kirkenes happen, and not only will you see your money double, you’ll be able to see me whenever you want. I will be at your beck and call.”

  “I like the sound of that,” he replied. “I like it a lot.”

  “I thought you would. Start making some phone calls. Show me you’re willing to do what it takes for me to come spend the weekend with you in D.C.”

  Baldwin could feel his face flushing. No woman had ever spoken to him this way. Lindsey Chang was driving him absolutely crazy with desire.

  “I’ll reach out,” he said. “In the meantime, let’s get the jet catered and file a flight plan. I’ll fly out to pick you up. We can enjoy the whole ride back, just the two of us. In complete privacy.”

  “Focus on Benson,” she whispered. “Call me back soon with good news.”

  And with that, the line went dead.

  CHAPTER 51

  LONGYEARBYEN, SVALBARD

  The last seat available on the Tromsø-to-Svalbard flight was also its worst seat—on the aisle, all the way in the back, next to the lavatory. It was like sitting behind the last row of nonsmoking, only worse.

  When the man next to him got up to use the lav, Harvath removed the envelopes Holidae had given him and examined the contents.

  He did a quick flip through the currency, eyeballing the denominations and double-checking the amounts. Both stacks were as advertised.

  Next, he opened the other envelope and looked at the odd-shaped key. There were no markings on it, nothing to indicate who or what it belonged to, only a small pencil-width hole at the other end. Through it, a piece of paracord had been looped and tied off.

  It reminded Harvath of using “dummy cords” in the SEAL teams, especially in cold-weather operations. There, critical pieces of equipment, like a pistol, could be tied to operators so the item wouldn’t go astray, even if it was dropped or the SEAL lost his footing and tumbled down a mountain.

  Tucking everything away, he heard a chime, followed by an announcement from the leader of the cabin crew.

  Because of inclement weather on their route to Svalbard, drink service was being suspended and all passengers were being asked to return to their seats and check the security of their seat belts.

  Harvath could only imagine the I told you so look he would have gotten from Mercer at that moment had the ex–CIA man been sitting next to him on this flight to Svalbard. A sign of more to come, he would have said, shaking his head.

  Not long after the announcement, the air began to get choppy. Harvath had no idea what his seatmate had been doing in the bathroom, but by the time he finally came out and sat back down, he looked like he had gotten knocked around pretty good.

  As the man fastened his seat belt, Harvath cinched his a little tighter. He’d been on some horrific flights in his life but had walked away from all of them. He didn’t expect anything different from this one.

  In fact, the absolute best thing they had going for them was that it was an SAS plane with a Norwegian crew. They knew what they were doing. Sitting back, all he could think was Thank God, no Russians are at the controls.

  * * *

  The nearer they got to Svalbard, the rougher the weather became. On the occasions that the clouds parted and Harvath could peer out his seatmate’s window and see the ocean, it was remarkable how angry it looked. The waves appeared tall enough to swallow a supertanker. It wasn’t surprising that Mercer hadn’t been able to find a boat willing to make the journey.

  As the captain announced their final descent into Svalbard Airport, Longyearbyen, he warned passengers that he expected it to be rough. In fact, the air was currently so unstable that he ordered the crew to remain seated. Rather than do their final cabin check, they relied on the passengers to do as they were asked. Using the PA system, they instructed everyone to stow their tray tables, bring their seats to the full upright position, and make sure that seat belts were fastened low and tightly across waists.

  They even went so far as to remind passengers that there was an air sickness bag in the seat pocket in front of them. Everything but a communal recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, thought Harvath.

  Nearing the airport, they entered the boundary layer and the turbulence spiked, shaking the plane like a giant pissed-off baby with a tiny plastic rattle.

  Because of the crosswind, the pilot brought the plane in at an angle—a procedure known as “crabbing,” whereby the nose of the plane is pointed into the wind to help the aircraft maintain a straight line.

  As the plane was about to touch down, the expert pilot flared and “de-crabbed,” applying a little rudder to align the aircraft with the runway centerline.

  The rubber tires bit into the asphalt, the plane was safely on the ground, and the passengers burst into spontaneous applause.

  Harvath glanced at his seatmate and watched as the man unclenched his hands from the armrests and the color slowly began to return to his face. If he hadn’t been a drinker before this flight, something told Harvath the guy had just found his reason to start.

  The plane came to a stop, the ground crew came out, and a set of airstairs were driven up to allow the passengers to deplane.

  Moving into the aisle, Harvath took a step back so that his seatmate could exit first. The sooner the man got some fresh air, the better. Harvath also figured that it was safer being behind him rather in front of him, just in case he got sick before he was outside.

  Harvath slung his pack and walked to the forward door, making sure to thank the crew and compliment everyone on
such a great landing as he left.

  Exiting, he immediately noticed how much colder it was on Svalbard than it had been in Kirkenes—dramatically so.

  At the bottom of the airstairs, a man in blue coveralls with wild, unkempt hair and about a week’s growth of beard sat on a Club Car, holding a cracked chalkboard. On it was written the name of the alias Harvath was traveling under: John Ramsey.

  Harvath gave him a nod and the man tossed the chalkboard on the backseat.

  “Baggages?” he asked in a thick Russian accent.

  “Only this,” said Harvath as he got into the passenger seat and set his pack on his lap.

  “Okay, we go.”

  “Okay,” Harvath replied, mimicking the man’s accent and eliciting a small grin.

  While Harvath was no fan of the Russian government, the Russian people were a different story. He was willing to judge them one at a time and come to a decision based on their character and how they comported themselves. The best ones he met tended to be the hardest working—blue-collar Russians. And if there was one thing he had learned over his career in dealing with people from different cultures, the shortest distance between two people was a good laugh.

  It was the flip side of an interesting personal coin Harvath carried within him. On the other side was inscribed: Have a smile for everyone you meet—and a plan to kill them.

  At first glance, the two maxims would have appeared contradictory, but in fact they were quite complementary. People who liked to laugh were rarely people you needed to worry about killing.

  Harvath spoke some Russian, but he rarely showed those cards when he was in the field. He preferred to play the “dumb American” and force them to speak English. It put them at ease and then, when they spoke to each other, he could listen in and get a much better feel for what they were thinking.

  Harvath engaged the driver of the Club Car in small talk as they drove toward the other end of the tarmac. The man’s name was Oleg. He came from a coal-mining town in Novosibirsk Oblast in Siberia. He had been on Svalbard for three years.

  In return, Harvath shared his cover story with the man. He was a high school history teacher from Ottawa, Canada, on summer vacation, writing a book about mining towns.

  Oleg either found it so boring, or he didn’t speak enough English to understand what Harvath had said, that he didn’t ask any follow-up questions. He simply kept driving.

  Soon enough, Harvath could see their destination—an aging blue, white, and red twin-turbine Mil Mi-8 Russian helicopter.

  Because of the availability of better and cheaper coal, revenues in Barentsburg had taken a nosedive. In order to shore up the town’s finances, they had done a hard pivot to tourism. Like Russia after the collapse of the Soviet Union, anything and everything in Barentsburg was for sale, or at least for rent—including the mining company’s helicopter.

  Pulling up next to the big bird, Oleg introduced “John Ramsey” to the pilot, a tough, squinty-eyed Russian named Pavel, who was conducting his preflight safety check.

  Harvath shook hands with the pilot and then Oleg helped him into the cabin and gave him his choice of fold-down seats. Harvath chose to be right behind the cockpit.

  Oleg plugged in a headset and handed it to him.

  “How long until we depart?” Harvath asked.

  The Russian looked out the nearest oval-shaped window, gauged how far along the pilot was, and said, “Five minutes.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Beverage services?” Oleg asked, removing a mercifully unopened bottle of water from his coveralls and offering it to him.

  It was an interesting quirk of many Russians he had met over the years that, when speaking English, they added an s to words that didn’t require it.

  “Spaseeba,” Harvath replied, unconcerned about revealing his modicum of fluency by employing one of the best-known words in the Russian language.

  Oleg touched his other pockets and said, “I forget snacks. I come right back.”

  Harvath held up his hand. “It’s okay,” he replied, nudging his backpack with the toe of his boot. “I brought my own snacks. Thank you.”

  “I can go get,” the Russian assured him, pointing to the nearby hangar.

  “It’s okay. Really. I’m good.”

  “Five stars good?” Oleg asked.

  Harvath didn’t know what he was referring to until the man took out his phone and showed him their Internet rating. The app Yelp really was everywhere. It had made it all the way to Svalbard.

  “Absolutely. Five stars good.”

  The Russian flashed him the thumbs-up and Harvath returned the gesture.

  A few minutes later, Pavel climbed into the cockpit, took the right seat, and began to turn dials, flip switches, and press buttons, bringing the helo online.

  Outside, as the massive rotors started to turn, Oleg removed the chocks from the tires.

  Slipping on his headset, Harvath asked, “How’s the weather?”

  “Is Svalbard weather,” Pavel replied. “No problem.”

  “Then we’re only waiting on the copilot and flight engineer?”

  “No copilot. No flight engineer. Only Pavel and Oleg.”

  Russians, Harvath thought to himself, though he had to admit, he liked both of these guys. They were a bit cocksure, but true flyboys.

  Oleg hopped into the left seat, closed the door, and, placing his headset on, buckled up and said, “Houston, we are ready for liftoff.”

  “Roger that,” Pavel replied. Glancing over his shoulder at Harvath, he said, “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”

  As power was increased to the engines and the rotors began to roar, the helicopter lifted off—one of Harvath’s favorite sensations. With it, he started to hear music.

  It took him a moment to recognize the song, but as Oleg increased the volume from the cockpit, it was unmistakable: “Sweet Emotion” by Aerosmith—one of Harvath’s favorite songs by one of his favorite bands.

  Flying toward Barentsburg, he wondered if maybe Mercer had just gotten off on the wrong foot with Svalbard. Maybe it wasn’t as bad a place as he made it out to be.

  Then the first burst of wind hit the helicopter.

  CHAPTER 52

  The second gust was even stronger. The helo was rocked hard, but Pavel quickly regained control. He was one hell of a pilot.

  “Everything okay?” Harvath asked, over his headset.

  “All good. All good,” Oleg replied, turning to smile and flash a thumbs-up.

  Shortly thereafter, Pavel noticed something on the ground and pointed it out to everyone. “Polar bear,” he said over their headsets.

  Even from above, it was an enormous, majestic animal. It was something to be admired and feared. Carrying a rifle, while also doing all you could to steer clear of such a creature, was the smart way to handle things.

  A few minutes later, they came into sight of Barentsburg.

  Gazing out the window, all Harvath could think of was how grim the mining community appeared. The town, with its coal-fired power plant, reminded him of something out of Mad Max.

  Flaring the big helo, Pavel brought it in to the heliport for a perfect landing. Oleg hopped out, grabbed the chocks, and stabilized the tires.

  Stepping down from the helicopter, Harvath reached into his pocket and pulled out a one-hundred-dollar bill for each of them.

  The looks on their faces said it all. The men were extremely grateful for his generosity and thanked him profusely. It also reinforced what Holidae had told him. The amount of money he was carrying in his backpack was indeed a king’s ransom on Svalbard.

  Harvath then asked if they had a “courtesy” car to get him into town. The men smiled and pointed him right to it—the Barentsburg bus.

  With a laugh, Harvath thanked them, slung his pack, and headed over to it. As he walked up the road, he noticed coal dust beginning to accumulate on his boots.

  While waiting for the bus, he reached for his phone out of habit, wanting
to check his messages to pass the time. Thankfully, he had turned it off when leaving Tromsø and hadn’t turned it back on. The Russians had no electronic record of his presence in Barentsburg, and if he played his cards right, they never would.

  Eventually the bus arrived and he stepped aboard, paying his fare in Norwegian kroner—one of the four major currencies accepted on the archipelago.

  It was a short ride to the port, where he disembarked and, walking a circuitous route, even stopped to pick up a coffee and a sandwich.

  Once he was confident that he wasn’t being followed, he headed for the building in the photo—the place where Mercer had secreted his capabilities kit.

  He walked around the block twice, looking for cameras as well as babushkas sweeping stoops or lurking in doorways.

  Seeing nothing, he moved to the quietest side of the property, dropped down, and crept underneath the building.

  It took him several minutes of navigating around the pylons until he found what he was looking for—the fake beam with the railroad spike. Opening it up, he carefully withdrew a thick canvas bag containing Mercer’s capabilities kit.

  The pistol was the first thing he pulled out. He had figured Mercer as a 1911 guy like the Old Man. Instead, what he found was a Beretta 92FS.

  The weapon wasn’t in great shape, but it could have been much worse. Getting out his cleaning kit, he quietly went to work, bringing it back to life.

  Twenty minutes later, after he had wiped off any excess oil, he reassembled the Beretta and racked the slide multiple times. Content that everything was in working order, he set it aside and examined the suppressor.

  It was a SureFire Ryder 9-Ti. Harvath had used many of these in the past. They were wickedly quiet. And, with indexed and numbered baffles, they were a breeze to disassemble, clean, and reassemble. It took less than five minutes to prep.

  Then, putting on a pair of latex gloves from the trauma kit, he ejected all of the rounds from the magazines, wiped them down, and reloaded them. He had no idea if Mercer’s prints were on the shell casings, but, just in case, he wanted to make sure they were clean.