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  He liked books about politics, history, and art. Though he had never been there, he hoped one day to visit Florence and Rome—to walk in the footsteps of Machiavelli and Michelangelo. For now, though, he was confined to Gotland.

  Kuznetsov was a deep-cover operative, part of the Russian illegals program. The term “illegal” referred to a Russian intelligence officer operating in a foreign country without official cover, such as an embassy employee or consular staff member.

  He was the quintessential gray man—a person of average height and average looks who was easily forgettable—brown hair, brown eyes, nothing special. He didn’t call attention to himself.

  Putting his butchering skills to work, he had found employment at an animal-processing plant on the island. He was knowledgeable, arrived early, stayed late, and never complained. It didn’t take him long to climb the ranks.

  He enjoyed getting out and meeting the various farmers and ranchers, seeing their livestock, and even lending a helping hand during lambing season and other such times.

  His papers identified him as a refugee from Kosovo named Dominik Gashi. And even though he wasn’t a Swede, he was appreciated and well-liked. As such, he spent a lot of social time with the farmers, ranchers, and other members of the community. That was how he had spotted and assessed Staffan Sparrman for potential recruitment.

  With Tretyakov’s permission, he had then slowly begun to develop Sparrman, building a deeper, more personal relationship with him. He began getting together with him on a one-on-one basis, sounding him out on different topics—one of which was politics.

  By the time the recruitment phase rolled around, he had Sparrman fully on the hook. The key to exploiting him wasn’t some weakness like gambling, drugs, or adultery, but rather it was ideological. He was a true believer in communism, but he had grown disillusioned with what he saw as a watered-down Communist Party in Sweden. Convinced that he couldn’t make a difference, he had given up and put all of his attention into the family farm.

  His greatest hope was that one day he could find a woman with whom he was ideologically aligned. Perhaps, if things worked out, they could get married and raise a family. Sparrman was still young, and Kuznetsov had used this longing to his advantage.

  The Russian had arranged to have an attractive GRU asset, who specialized in honey traps, vacation on the island. All he had to do was create a scenario where the two would cross paths, and he let the GRU asset handle the rest.

  It was quite a steamy affair, and like most vacation flings, it eventually had to come to an end. But when the asset returned to Russia, she kept in touch with Sparrman via text messages, emails, and the occasional Skype video calls. With as light a touch as possible, she encouraged him not to give up on the communist cause and built him up to believe he could do great things. Kuznetsov then handled the rest.

  Sparrman was his entry point into mainstream Gotland culture, and Kuznetsov built his network of assets and spies from there. Coming from a political family, Sparrman seemed to know where everyone on the island stood. Having grown up with all of them, he also knew what their weaknesses were and where they were the most vulnerable for recruitment.

  The fact that Kuznetsov could safely use the family farm of the Governor of Gotland as his base of operations was an incredible coup. Of course, it helped that Kerstin Sparrman had an apartment in Visby and preferred to live there rather than out on the farm, but nevertheless Kuznetsov—and by extension his superior, Oleg Tretyakov—had been widely heralded back at GRU headquarters for their ingenuity. Operating an intelligence network right under the nose of the most important official on Gotland was the stuff of legend.

  For his part, Kuznetsov didn’t see it as the stuff of legend. It just made good sense. The Sparrman farm was quite big. There were not only multiple places to have meetings undetected, but also countless places to hide caches of money, munitions, weapons, and assorted equipment.

  But best of all, the farm allowed for the hiring of foreign laborers—big, strong men who under almost any other employment circumstances would have stood out on Gotland like sore thumbs. Tretyakov loved that he could create the Swedish cell and hide it in plain sight.

  Sweden was undergoing a shortage in the labor market—particularly when it came to manual labor such as farm work. Visas to import workers from abroad were easy to come by.

  A GRU intelligence officer working under official cover at the Russian Embassy in Stockholm had someone on his payroll in the Swedish Immigration Department. The immigration official was essentially a rubber stamp. All the GRU man from the embassy had to do was put the paperwork in front of him and he would sign off. No questions asked. Tretyakov had had no problem getting the men he needed into the country, over to Gotland, and to work on the Sparrman farm.

  Kuznetsov not only had his own homegrown espionage network to gather intelligence, but he also had his own team of Russian Special Forces soldiers, known as Spetsnaz, lying in wait for when Moscow gave the order to launch the cell’s mission against the local garrison. It couldn’t have all come together in a more perfect fashion.

  Which was why the man in the Alpine hat sniffing around the cell had caused such concern throughout the ranks.

  Though he needed Tretyakov’s permission, Kuznetsov had already decided what needed to be done. The man had to be eliminated.

  The word back from Tretyakov, though, was that it had to look like an accident. He had also wanted it done quickly, plus he wanted the man’s phone, laptop, and any other items of interest he might be in possession of. If they could uncover who he was and why he had been following Sparrman, that would be a valuable bonus.

  Staging a vehicle accident was not as easy as it appeared in the movies. Even so, Kuznetsov and the Spetsnaz operatives had plenty of experience and were confident they could pull it off. They also had the perfect piece of bait—Sparrman. All they needed to do was pick the right location and spring their trap.

  Catching the attention of the man in the Alpine hat had been easy. They had set up what appeared to be a clandestine rendezvous between Sparrman and another farmer in an easy-to-observe location.

  The other farmer, who owed Sparrman some mundane paperwork, handed the documents over and Sparrman furtively tucked them into his jacket pocket. It didn’t have to be anything more than that.

  Sparrman withdrew a map of the island and had a brief discussion with the farmer about spring grazing. Circling a location on the map, he thanked the farmer, shook hands, and returning to his vehicle, drove away. The man in the Alpine hat followed in his white VW Passat.

  Kuznetsov and his team stayed in touch with Sparrman the entire time via encrypted radios. Gradually, they had him increase his speed. As he did, the white Passat trailing behind him matched his pace.

  The Spetsnaz operatives had prescreened the route and had chosen the best location for the accident to happen. What they hadn’t counted on was another car coming by so soon afterward.

  The accident itself had gone off perfectly—even better than they had planned.

  Traveling with the headlights off, the man in the white VW was so focused on Sparrman in front of him that he never even noticed the Spetsnaz men come up on him from behind in a green Mercedes SUV.

  By the time he realized they were there, they had moved into the opposite lane, as if to pass. Then, all of a sudden, they brought their vehicle slamming into his left rear quarter panel, causing him to swerve and lose control.

  The white VW Passat shot off the road, rolled, and slammed into a tree with such force it sounded like an explosion.

  They had been prepared to snap the man’s neck, but it turned out not to be necessary. By the time they got to his vehicle, he was already dead.

  Quickly, they patted down all of his pockets and went through the rest of his car—taking his cell phone and his laptop bag, complete with a Toshiba notebook.

  Before they could make a second, more thorough pass, they heard a car coming. They had no choice but to
flee the scene.

  As they left, they reached out to Johansson, another local member of the network, to let him know that everything had gone according to plan. They told him to expect a call to go out from his dispatcher shortly.

  Knowing where and when the accident would take place, Johansson had arranged to be in the area, so that he could be the first law enforcement officer on the scene. In case the Spetsnaz operatives missed anything, which he highly doubted, he’d be able to take care of it.

  When the passing motorists stopped to see what had happened, the call to the police followed less than a minute later. Immediately, the dispatcher was putting out the call for all available units to respond. Johansson radioed back his position and that he was en route. He had a good fifteen minutes at the scene before anyone else showed up. Not that he needed it. The Spetsnaz members had done a perfect job.

  Back in Kaliningrad, Tretyakov had been pleased to get the good news. The man in the Alpine hat had been taken care of and the cell was still intact, ready to act. The man’s phone and the laptop would be couriered by one of Kuznetsov’s people to an agent in Stockholm. From there, it would be placed in the Russian Embassy’s diplomatic pouch and sent to Moscow where it could be fully examined.

  In the meantime, Tretyakov had authorized another attack by the People’s Revolutionary Front. He had decided not only to oblige his superiors by moving up the timetable, but also to up the carnage.

  If tonight’s operation was successful, it would be their most spectacular achievement yet.

  CHAPTER 29

  * * *

  ROME, ITALY

  Figurati was one of the hottest restaurants in Rome. Located on the glamorous Piazza Navona, it was at the intersection of Italian politics and culture. Frequented by celebrities and politicians alike, Figurati was the place to be seen, especially on a Friday night.

  The tables in the main dining room were booked months in advance. Only the most powerful and most famous could get a table on short notice, and sometimes not even then.

  Contessa Chiara Di Vencenzo had a standing reservation. Every Friday at nine o’clock, the buxom and vivacious Neapolitan, who had married well and divorced even better, held court at a round table in the center of the dining room. Her guests varied wildly. They included authors, filmmakers, actors, models, painters, poets, dissidents, politicians, and titans of industry.

  Hers was one of the top tables in Rome, and an invitation for Friday dinner with the Contessa meant you were seen as a very big, very important deal.

  On Fridays, the paparazzi parked themselves outside on the sidewalk waiting to snap photos of those she had invited. The next morning, newspapers across the city and websites throughout Italy ran their pictures, as well as stories about who else had been seen at the restaurant that night.

  For those who couldn’t get a table in the dining room, there was always the slim chance they might find space in the bar. It was standing room only by seven o’clock, but worth it just to catch a glimpse of the rich and famous who came to dine. As long as you were well dressed, Figurati was happy to have your business.

  On this particular Friday, Jacopo Romano was very well dressed. He had polished his shoes until they shone like mirrors. His new navy blue suit was perfectly pressed, his crisp white shirt heavily starched.

  In his girlfriend’s opinion, three days’ growth of beard was the perfect length for his handsome face. His taut, olive skin set off the deep green eyes on either side of his perfectly proportioned Roman nose. He was the picture of Italian good looks.

  In his left hand, he carried a large Prada shopping bag. Inside it was a box, elegantly wrapped in gift paper and tied with an enormous satin bow. Taped to the side of the box was a bright yellow envelope, presumably containing a greeting card of some sort.

  Romano navigated his way through the crowd and patiently waited for twenty minutes before a barman took his order. The restaurant was filled with the sound of laughter, animated conversations, and the tinkling of glasses. Overhead, speakers in the ceiling pumped out an eclectic mix of jazz and bossa nova.

  Romano paid for his Campari and soda with cash, then stepped away from the bar and faded back into the crowd.

  At nine o’clock on the dot, a jolt of electricity surged through the restaurant as the first of the Contessa’s guests showed up. It was a British actress, filming a movie in Italy, who was alleged to be having an affair with the current, married, Prime Minister.

  She looked absolutely stunning and was followed by another woman, just as gorgeous—a model who had been tapped as the new face of Gucci. After they were shown to the table, two men arrived—an Italian soccer star and a young fashion designer who was said to have been taking Milan by storm.

  The remaining guests passed through a meteor shower of camera flashes outside, and then ten minutes later, the Contessa arrived.

  It took the flaxen-haired beauty half an hour to make it to her table. Every two feet she was being stopped by someone or other, kissing her on both cheeks, asking how her family was and where she planned to spend the summer. She was quite visibly in her element and loving every moment of it.

  Making a full circuit of her table she doled out hugs and kisses on both cheeks to each one of her guests. Pleasantries were exchanged back and forth until she insisted everyone sit.

  Bottles of champagne were brought to the table, glasses were raised, and toasts were made.

  There was no need for menus to be passed around. That was not the kind of restaurant that Figurati was. What’s more, the Contessa liked surprising her guests.

  The only clarification necessary was whether anyone at the table had any food allergies. They had become prevalent these days. The Contessa actually found it quite astounding. Growing up, she hadn’t known a single person with a food allergy.

  According to a physician she knew, the best science could understand was that first-world medicine had beaten back so many ailments that without anything to fight, immune systems were now turning against themselves. She found it fascinating that food allergies didn’t exist in the developing world.

  Having informed the waiter that there were no food allergies at their table, the Contessa turned her attention to her guests. As was her custom, she went around the table, asking her guests to introduce themselves with their name, their occupation, and what famous person they would like to sleep with.

  It was a randy opener, to be sure, but it helped break the ice and set the mood for the evening. If you weren’t any fun, the Contessa didn’t want to have anything to do with you. Life’s too short had always been her motto.

  Accompanying the Contessa was her longtime boyfriend, Giovanni Lorenzo. A retired diplomat, Lorenzo had served as Italy’s Ambassador to the European Union, as well as Deputy Secretary of NATO. Currently, he was president of a little-known NGO called the NATO Defense College Foundation.

  Established to further the goals of NATO, the foundation worked closely with the Rome-headquartered NATO Defense College.

  The college had been the brainchild of Dwight D. Eisenhower, the first Supreme Allied Commander of Europe. The idea had been to create a university where both civilian and military members of NATO could pursue training, which would result in the strengthening and constant improvement of the North Atlantic Alliance.

  Romano was pleased to see Lorenzo there. It had been a fifty-fifty shot. While the retired diplomat was a regular guest, he didn’t attend every one of the Contessa’s dinners. She was a good twenty years younger, had a lot more energy, and craved the limelight much more than he did.

  Stepping across the threshold into the dining room, the handsome Italian moved to the side to allow others to pass. He set the shopping bag down on the floor next to him and pretended to scan the room for a group of dinner companions.

  Inches away was a waiter’s station. As his eyes moved from table to table, he saw people engaged in their own conversations, occasionally glancing at the Contessa and her guests, but not paying attenti
on to anything else, much less to him.

  Casually parting the fabric skirt of the waiter’s station, Romano pushed the bag underneath, greeting card facing out, with the toe of his beautifully polished shoe.

  With his package placed, he strolled out of the restaurant, stopping only at the front door to depress a button on the wireless key fob in his pocket.

  He was more than a block away when the bomb detonated. Even then, the blast was so intense that it shattered all of the windows around him and knocked him to the ground.

  Within hours, newscasters would be calling it the worst bombing in Italy since the Marxist terror attacks of the 1970s, and the People’s Revolutionary Front would be known as the deadliest European terrorist organization since the Red Brigades and the Baader-Meinhof Gang.

  CHAPTER 30

  * * *

  GOTLAND

  Harvath didn’t like having to deceive Chief Inspector Nyström about his true purpose and identity. The man seemed like a good cop. Deception, though, was a necessary part of the job—especially now.

  They were in Sweden, running a black operation without the knowledge of its government. They were supposed to have had the help of one of its most senior intelligence officers, but Lars Lund was now dead. They were 100 percent on their own.

  Harvath deeply regretted Lund’s passing, but he was used to operating in this position, often in much harsher environments. He had only forty-eight hours. They would have to make it work. He wasn’t going back to Brussels empty-handed.

  Dropping Harvath back at the airport, the Chief Inspector had offered to stick around to help make sure all of their arrangements were taken care of. Harvath had thanked him and reiterated that he’d call him if he needed help. That reminded the policeman that he hadn’t gotten Harvath’s cell phone number, which he promptly asked for, “Just in case anything pops up and I need to get in touch,” he had said.