Black Ice Page 11

“I wish you both good health and good luck.”

  “Thank you,” Nicholas replied. “And speaking of children, how did your visit with Marco go?”

  Marco was the four-year-old son of Harvath’s deceased wife. Technically, Marco was his stepson. Sadly, the boy’s biological father had drowned before he was born. He was being raised in Boston by his grandparents.

  “The visit was absolutely lovely,” said Sølvi. And she meant it.

  Unable to have children of her own, she doted on her nieces and nephews, but having Marco to themselves for almost two whole weeks was a dream come true.

  Harvath had flown Marco and the grandparents over first-class and then he had given them an incredible gift. He put them in the cottage out on the fjord and allowed them to have a proper vacation, devoid of any childcare responsibility whatsoever.

  Both of the grandparents had forgotten what it was like to relax. His father-in-law had fished like crazy, while his mother-in-law sat out on the deck drinking wine and reading book after book.

  Back in Oslo, Harvath made it a point to get ice cream every day as they took in all the child-friendly attractions the city had to offer—many of them more than once. They visited the TusenFryd Amusement Park, the Oslo reptile park, the Leos Lekeland adventure playground, and their absolute favorite spot, in the nearby suburb of Lørenskog, SNØ—a year-round, indoor winter sports complex where Harvath taught the little guy how to ski.

  Whenever she could get away, including via cashing in several sick days, Sølvi joined them. The experience had made their summer, and their relationship, all the sweeter.

  For his part, Harvath’s greatest fear about the visit had never materialized. He had been worried that the in-laws would be angry with him for finding someone so soon after their daughter’s murder. But as a testament to their good taste, they loved Sølvi. And as a testament to their good character, they loved Harvath. He was a part of their family and always would be. The connection he shared with Sølvi was unmistakable. More than anything else, they wanted him to be happy.

  When the time came for Marco to leave, it was difficult to say goodbye. Thanks to Sølvi, though, Harvath was able to squeeze out a little extra one-on-one time with him.

  The grandparents were not fond of driving in the Audi with the top down, but the little boy loved it. Sølvi offered to drive them to the airport in her car while Harvath and Marco took the convertible. It was the perfect final road trip to cap everything off.

  Along with all of the photos rotating through the digital frame in Sølvi’s kitchen, there were plenty of Marco’s visit to remind them of how special it had been for all of them.

  Cracking one of the cold packs Staelin handed him, Harvath placed it under his shirt and against his ribs. He then washed down the ibuprofen with a bottle of water Haney had brought him from the kitchen and, looking at his team, said, “Let’s put together a plan. Our next SITREP is due in less than eight hours. I want to make sure that we have something substantial to report.”

  CHAPTER 21

  BEIJING

  THURSDAY MORNING

  CHINA STANDARD TIME

  Xing Fen was known as a “short sleeper,” someone who needed barely any sleep at all. Four hours a night and she was good. It was a biological gift that provided her with an extra sixty days a year. What did she do with all of that extra time? She had devoted it to the Chinese Communist Party.

  No one could outwork her. She stayed later and arrived earlier than anyone else in government. She never slept in and never showed the appearance of being tired. She was a font of boundless, determined energy—a true warrior for China. None of her colleagues, especially the males, could question her work ethic. It played no small part in how she was able to ascend to the level of a Vice Premier.

  Each morning she picked up the same breakfast from the same stall—two fertilized duck eggs with partially developed embryos inside known as “feathered” eggs. The unusual delicacy was boiled, served warm, and—based on how long it had been incubated—sometimes included small, soft bones and the beginnings of feathers.

  When it came to her morning beverage, unlike many of her colleagues who had been swept up in the coffee craze, she still preferred tea—a pot of which, prepared by an assistant, was always hot and waiting on her desk when she arrived.

  She read four newspapers in three different languages before any of her peers were even out of bed. By the time she had eaten her breakfast, she had a better grasp of where the world was and where it was headed than most politicians would all day.

  Her second-in-command appeared, as he did every morning, precisely at eight a.m. She already had an agenda prepared with a list of topics she wanted to discuss.

  Today she was quite eager for an update on how things were going in both the United States and Norway. They were two of her most active and most important assignments.

  “Where would you like me to begin?” the man asked.

  “Let’s start with the United States.”

  The second-in-command withdrew a folder and was about to hand it to his boss but hesitated.

  “What’s the problem?” Xing asked.

  “Our asset in the United States, Lindsey Chang.”

  “What about her?”

  “You’re aware that she uses some rather coarse methods.”

  “Isn’t that what we pay her for?”

  “Technically,” said the man, “we pay her for results.”

  “Has she ever disappointed us?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do we care about her methods as long as she gets the desired results?” asked Xing, motioning her second-in-command for the folder.

  The man handed it over and waited as his boss flipped through the pages he had printed out for her. As she did, he explained what she was looking at.

  “These are copies of her text messages with Dennis Wo’s fixer—the American political fundraiser, Spencer Baldwin.”

  “She doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does she?”

  “No, she doesn’t. The Americans refer to it as ‘sexting.’ ”

  “Isn’t Baldwin married?”

  “Yes,” the man replied. “That is correct.”

  “Not only does the very attractive Ms. Chang have him eating out of the palm of her hand, but she has also developed some excellent blackmail material. I’m quite pleased.”

  “Mr. Baldwin is already moving mountains. According to Chang, the first thing he did upon returning to Washington was to have lunch with the chief of staff to Alaska’s senior senator, Dwyer, and to make our case.”

  “And?”

  “And Baldwin thought it went very well. He called Chang right after the lunch to give her an update. Apparently, the chief of staff is looking to get into state politics back in Alaska. Baldwin told him that if he could help on the Alaska liquefied natural gas project, campaign funds wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Very, very good,” Xing said. “Remind me to thank Dennis Wo for the introduction. What is the next step?”

  “The chief of staff wants to refresh himself on all of the data—the potential boost to Alaska’s economy, the amount of jobs expected to be created, and so forth. He told Baldwin he would be back in touch with him shortly.”

  “In the meantime, tell Chang to keep doing what she’s doing. Baldwin is obviously very motivated.”

  “Agreed.”

  Xing closed the folder and handed it back. “Let’s move on to Norway.”

  Handing her a new folder, the man said, “We have a problem.”

  “Explain.”

  “Last night, in Oslo, our asset was followed from his hotel. Han was en route to a second meeting with his Russian contact.”

  “Who was following him? Norwegian Intelligence?”

  “We don’t know. As you’ll recall, he thought he might have been followed to his first meeting with Sarov.”

  “What I recall,” said Xing, “was that Han had a feeling, a hunch. He never specifically sa
w anyone.”

  “Correct. He shared his concern with Sarov, who assigned a countersurveillance team to watch over him. They’re the ones who spotted the tail.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Han received a phone call. He was told to proceed to a construction site. There, he led his pursuer inside and the Russians apprehended him. Han was then told to leave and continue on to the meeting, which he did.”

  “It wasn’t canceled?”

  The man shook his head. “The Russians were confident that they were dealing with just one person and that they had him.”

  Xing had often found the Russians to be too confident—reckless, even. Had this been up to her, the meeting would have been called off.

  “What did Sarov have to say once he got there?” she asked.

  “According to Han, the first thing they addressed was his security. Someone knew enough to be following him and knew what hotel he was in. Sarov is going to move him, find him a new place to stay. They took his key card and will have somebody collect his things.”

  It was the first thing she had heard that made sense. Score one point for the Russians. “What about the man the countersurveillance team captured?”

  “By the end of the meeting, Sarov still didn’t have an update. He said he’d let Han know as soon as had something.”

  “I don’t like this,” she said. “Someone is onto us. Until we have absolute certainty that the operation isn’t compromised, I think we need to put everything on hold.”

  The man understood his boss’s apprehension. He also understood that her superiors, not to mention the Russians, would be very unhappy if China backed out now. It would undermine confidence and erode trust. It would also deny Beijing a real-world test—against the Americans—of its new, cutting-edge technology.

  He chose his words carefully. “I understand your position. It is wise to be cautious.”

  “But…?” she asked, sensing there was more to what he was thinking.

  “If the proof of concept succeeds, which we have every reason to believe it will, you will have achieved an amazing pair of victories. You will have proven that the Black Ice program works and, in exchange for access to that technology, you will have secured from the Russians uninhibited passage through the Northern Sea Route—not just for Chinese commercial shipping but for our naval vessels as well. I imagine that the Order of the Republic would be the least of the honors bestowed upon you.”

  She knew he was flattering her, but she also knew he wasn’t wrong. If she was successful, she’d be a national hero. There would be no end to what she could do within the Chinese Communist Party. But if she failed, there would be hell to pay. Of that, she was absolutely certain.

  “You believe we should push forward.”

  “I believe that we can’t afford not to,” he said. “Han is our best. That’s why you chose him. He understands the importance of his mission. He also understands that no path is ever without stones.”

  “I don’t want any stones in his path. Is that understood?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” she replied, “I agree with you. We have too much riding on this. Security cannot be left to the Russians. Not at this point. We need to assert control.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want Han to have backup. Chinese backup.”

  The man thought about it and responded, “I have to move some things around, but I have a team I can get to him.”

  “Good. Do it. And whoever is following Han, I want them dealt with. No matter what it takes.”

  CHAPTER 22

  OSLO

  As neither his calls nor his texts were being returned, Yevgeny Sarov decided to check out the construction site for himself.

  The lack of communication was troubling to say the least, but it was only compounded by the personnel choice he’d been forced to make.

  In a perfect world, he would have selected intelligence operatives from the Russian Embassy. They would have been much better trained. The problem, though, was that Norway took its internal security quite seriously. There was a high likelihood that most, if not all, of the people he wanted were on the radar of Norwegian Intelligence.

  And while the country didn’t have the manpower to surveil embassy staff on a 24/7 basis, they dipped in and out enough to make him nervous. That’s why he had decided to go underground for help.

  Unlike in other countries, Russian organized crime kept a somewhat low profile in Norway. The most lucrative of their illicit income streams were drugs and sex trafficking. They used nightclubs and auto repair shops as front companies through which they laundered their money and ran large chunks of their businesses.

  Sarov had reached out to an avtoritet he knew named Yumatov. An avtoritet was the equivalent of a capo in the Italian Mafia—a person responsible for a crew of “soldiers.” It was Yumatov who had provided the men for the countersurveillance team.

  Stepping inside the building, Sarov walked toward the back and instantly recognized the scene for what it was—an ambush.

  Clearly, only Yumatov had had time to access his weapon, but it hadn’t made a difference. The man hadn’t even gotten a shot off; the safety of his pistol was still engaged. He lay on the ground, his jeans and sport coat soaked in blood.

  Glancing around, Sarov noted that it had all the hallmarks of a professional, organized hit—one criminal gang set against another.

  Perhaps that was what the shooter wanted people to think. After all, last year there had been similar violence between rival factions. In one case, the killer’s gun had also been left behind. This, though, felt different.

  Crouching down, Sarov examined the suppressed Czech pistol without touching it. The CZ 75 lay on the ground near a chair that had been knocked over. Using his handkerchief so as not to leave any fingerprints, he righted the chair and studied its position.

  Based upon the nearby corpses and a set of construction lamps, this was where the interrogation had been taking place. But what had happened? How had it all gone wrong?

  Walking over to the lights, Sarov used his handkerchief to turn them on and then tried to piece together what had happened.

  The man they had taken captive would have been restrained. He also would have been patted down. There was no way he could have concealed from his captors a pistol of that size, much less one with a suppressor.

  Stacking the odds further against him was how bright the construction lamps were. The man’s vision would have been seriously diminished.

  So, even if he could have broken free, the idea that he then pulled out a weapon and successfully killed everyone in the room was just too much. Someone had assisted the captive.

  But who?

  Working his way out from the scene, Sarov kept searching for evidence. Then, finally, he found it. Shell casings—eight, to be exact, and littered in the same area. The hit was professional. Extremely so.

  From what he could tell, the shooter had stepped into the room and fired all eight shots from about the same spot. Each of the deceased had been double-tapped, which spoke to a very talented marksman, probably someone with advanced military training. This wasn’t some rival gangster.

  If it had been, there would have been a fifth body here—the man they had been interrogating when the shooter walked in. There was no reason to spare him, to leave a witness. It was even more obvious to Sarov that the two had been working together.

  That brought him right back to his previous question: Who were they? The Norwegians weren’t the type to dirty their hands with wet work. Law and order, due process, and human rights were their cris de coeur.

  Whatever this was, it was spur-of-the-moment—reactive. The man Yumatov and his crew had grabbed must have had a partner who had gone unnoticed. Focused on the interrogation, they had failed to pick up on the killer until it was too late.

  Looking over everything again, Sarov tried to make the pieces fit. Highly skilled gunman. Not afraid to leave the weap
on—nor the bodies, for that matter—behind.

  In his experience, only two professions operated without fear like that—corrupt police officers and contract killers. And despite what people saw in the movies, cops were not usually precision marksmen.

  But the fact that someone was onto Han, had pinpointed his hotel, and was following him strongly suggested the involvement of the Norwegian Police Security Service, known as the Politiets sikkerhetstjeneste, or PST for short. They were responsible for interior security throughout Norway and were akin to Britain’s MI5 or the American FBI.

  Yet, if it had been the PST, that only made the circumstances more confusing. Why not arrest Yumatov and his men? The PST certainly had the authority. Why execute them and leave their bodies and the weapon behind? It made no sense.

  That left Sarov to go down the assassin avenue. Did Han have enemies in Norway? If the Chinese operative was to be believed, he had never been to Oslo, nor anywhere else in the country before. He had not personally, nor by proxy, run any prior operations against Norway. This was his inaugural assignment in Scandinavia.

  Regardless of who was onto Han and what their reasons might be, the fact was that he had been blown. Sarov had a decision to make. He either had to cut Han loose or make it so that the Norwegians couldn’t find him.

  Considering how much was at stake, cutting him loose was the least palatable option. Russia not only wanted but badly needed access to China’s Black Ice project. Putting together the proof-of-concept test had been a long and laborious process. That he and Han had to meet in Oslo to hash out final details only went to show how intricate this next phase of the Sino-Russian relationship was. The last thing Sarov needed was to be known as the person who had called it all off. There had to be a better way.

  He knew, of course, what that way was. He needed to get Han out of Oslo as soon as possible.

  The original plan had been for them to travel the next day to Kirkenes, albeit separately. Han was booked with a group of Chinese tourists leaving the Radisson via bus, which would take them to the Oslo airport, where they would board a charter flight to Høybuktmoen, eight miles west of Kirkenes. That route was now off the table. Commercial airports and train stations had too many eyes and way too much security. They were going to have to drive.