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  Harvath didn’t want the Swedish police being able to track his movements, so he provided Nyström with a dummy number Nicholas had set up that would dump right into voicemail and ping Harvath’s current phone number if any messages were left.

  Writing down the number in his notebook, the Chief Inspector thanked him, the pair shook hands, and the cop drove off.

  With his most pressing headache out of the way, Harvath turned to the others on his list.

  Because the man in the hat had been in charge of providing the team with vehicles and a place to stay, they now had to scramble.

  The rental car situation was less than optimal. The car choices were lousy, and he could rent one only under his false “Hallman” identity. As the driver of the second vehicle, Chase Palmer would have to use one of his false driver’s identities as well.

  Fully backstopped covers were very time consuming and expensive to create. They didn’t grow on trees. Among the major advantages of working with the man in the hat were the top cover he could provide and the preservation of the team’s anonymity. ID wouldn’t have been required for anything. That was a good thing, especially in a covert operation.

  In fact, it was Tradecraft 101—something the Old Man had repeatedly pounded into him. As an example of what not to do, Carlton loved to cite a horribly botched operation Langley had run in Italy about a decade earlier.

  Two dozen CIA operatives had participated in an assignment to snatch a Muslim cleric off the streets of Milan and render him for interrogation. Inexplicably, the operatives not only traveled under their own names, but also used their personal hotel rewards programs to rack up points, and ran all around Italy with their personal cell phones, leaving a trail of electronic bread crumbs.

  The Italian government tried all of them in absentia for kidnapping, false imprisonment, and torture, resulting in unanimous guilty verdicts. The trial was followed by sentencing, in which massive fines and jail time were levied. None of them would ever again be able to travel to Europe without fear of arrest and imprisonment.

  To call it amateur hour would be an insult to amateurs. The Old Man had been adamant that Harvath and everyone else at The Carlton Group hold themselves to a higher standard.

  But even in the presence of best intentions, an immutable law of covert operations remained—if something could go wrong, it would.

  Harvath had already witnessed Murphy’s Law on full display in Norway. He didn’t intend to let Murphy pop his ugly head up here. Though, if it did, no matter what got thrown at them, they would adapt and overcome. Failure was not an option.

  With Harvath’s and Chase’s aliases each tied to a rental car, they used Sloane’s alias to book their accommodations. The less anyone could connect the team’s dots, the better.

  That same mindset applied to where they’d be sleeping. The fewer people who saw them coming and going, the better.

  As Gotland was a popular vacation destination, Staelin had looked beyond hotels, searching for off-season houses and apartments that might be for rent. Within five minutes online, he had found the perfect spot.

  Once paperwork had been completed and their vehicles—a blue Kia Sedona minivan and a gray Toyota Camry sedan—had been brought around, they transferred over the gear from the plane and headed out of the airport toward the rental house.

  The old country house sat on fifteen allegedly “quiet” acres twenty minutes outside town. They stopped along the way at a gas station minimart to load up on provisions. Harvath stayed outside to keep an eye on the vehicles.

  While he waited, he banged out a text on his encrypted sat phone. He wanted to give Ryan a fuller picture of what was going on and how they were dealing with it. With his message sent, he shut down the phone and turned his attention to the cars.

  Since leaving the airport, he had kept a close eye on their six o’clock. It hadn’t seemed as if they were being followed. But in the age of GPS, a person didn’t need to physically tail you in order to monitor where you were going.

  “Fleet management” was a fancy term for GPS tracking and was standard operating procedure for all major car rental companies. He disabled the fleet management system in the minivan first and then the sedan. After, he did a full inspection of each vehicle to make sure no secondary devices had been added. He didn’t find anything.

  Ten minutes later, the team exited the minimart, each carrying multiple grocery bags. Barton, the SEAL, was carrying several cases of bottled water, with a case of sugar-free Red Bull stacked on top.

  “Somebody also bought coffee, right?” asked Harvath.

  “Two kinds,” replied Chase, who was right behind him. “They even had a grinder inside. I got to do the beans myself.”

  “At a gas station?”

  “Welcome to Sweden,” he said with a grin.

  Harvath was glad to see him so upbeat. The last time they had run an operation in Sweden, it hadn’t gone well. Multiple operatives had died, and Chase, who had penetrated deep inside a sophisticated terror cell, had been lucky to make it out alive.

  Like Sloane Ashby, Chase Palmer had the right mix of what it took. He was young, sharp, and highly successful in the field. He was also fearless and, like Sloane, fully understood the threats that were massing around the world. They had had access to weapons and training the likes of which he had never seen at their age. Harvath envied them both.

  They also had plenty of time left on the clock. They could go kinetic for years, if not decades, to come. Harvath, though, was already pushing his limit.

  He was closer to exiting his forties than entering. He had been masking the pain that came from a lifetime of beating the hell out of his body with anti-inflammatories and the occasional Vicodin. In between, his preferred method was taking the healing waters of Buffalo Trace, Knob Creek, or Hudson Bay.

  But despite everything that had been thrown at him, he worked hard to stay fit.

  His training regimen had been crafted by one of the top sports medicine physicians in the country. In addition to massive weight and cardio workouts, he did what every successful operative did—he cheated.

  The SEALs referred to it as the “cocktail,” while Delta called it “Hulk sauce.” It was a combination of performance-enhancing compounds developed by a group in Florida that worked on training and rehabilitating professional athletes.

  Harvath had been the first at The Carlton Group to try it, even though Lara had cautioned him against it. The results turned out to be undeniable.

  He had packed on ten additional pounds of muscle and had cut fourteen seconds off his mile. Even so, he was smart enough to know that there might be a price to pay. In time, the injections could be found to cause this or that illness. Right now, though, whatever allowed him to remain in the field was all that mattered.

  Smiling back at Chase, he said, “So besides coffee, did we get anything else healthy, or is it all junk food?”

  The young operative glanced in his bags. “Let me see. Vegan beef jerky, frozen Greek yogurt, wheat-grass-flavored mineral water—with extra pulp, and the pièce de résistance—probiotic Oreos.”

  Harvath shook his head. “Sounds delicious. Let’s get going. I want eyes on Sparrman’s farm before sunrise.”

  CHAPTER 31

  * * *

  The Gotland operation had always been envisioned as a snatch-and-grab of Sparrman. That meant concealable weapons, not long guns. But Harvath being Harvath, he had insisted that they bring one along—just in case. The weapon in question was a LaRue Tactical 6.5 Grendel FDE rifle with a Schmidt & Bender 5-25x56 scope with an illuminated reticle. In the case, Harvath had included a Summit thermal weapon sight for nighttime operations. They were glad to have all of it.

  Across the road and slightly uphill from the Sparrman farm was a forest. It was the perfect spot for a hide site, a place to dig in and have an overwatch position of the key buildings on the property. Staelin and Chase had offered to take the first shift.

  After pulling the car well off t
he road, the two former Delta Force operatives powered up their night-vision goggles and doubled back on foot as Haney unpacked the team’s drone.

  It was pitch-dark, but the device was outfitted with an infrared camera. Harvath wanted to do a quick reconnaissance of the area to see if there was anything in particular they needed to be aware of.

  Haney worked quickly. Within five minutes of removing the Storm Case from the car, he had the drone airborne.

  The live stream could be fed to multiple devices. Harvath watched on a small tablet.

  The technology was advancing so quickly, it seemed as if they were upgrading their equipment on a monthly basis. Not only was the resolution incredible, but the sound had also been attenuated to such a degree that certain drones were scary quiet. One could be hovering several feet above your head and you wouldn’t even know it unless you looked up and saw it directly. While good for his line of work, the rapid advancement in this and several other technologies gave him pause. He could envision a not-too-distant future where humans stayed behind in a tactical operations center while machines did all the work in the field—including, maybe someday, snatching human targets.

  Shaking the thought off, he focused on the footage that Haney’s drone was sending back. It started far outside and worked its way in.

  The Sparrman farm had multiple kinds of livestock, predominantly cattle, sheep, and pigs. There was a large poultry barn, and from what the drone could see, it appeared they had a healthy number of chickens as well.

  In addition to the poultry barn, there were a multitude of outbuildings, including what appeared to be a dairy barn.

  The large property was cross-fenced, with water stations in several places for the animals, along with plenty of run-in sheds and strategically placed grain dispensers.

  Just off the road they had driven in on was the main house. It was two stories tall and a stone’s throw from an old wooden structure, which was probably the farm’s original barn. Behind it was what looked like a small administrative building. Across from that was what had to be a bunkhouse.

  Harvath was particularly interested in the vehicles parked outside, and he had Haney zoom in for inspections. Even using the drone’s IR illuminator, there was only so much information he could gather.

  Once the preliminary reconnaissance was complete, he had Haney recall the drone, pack it back up, and return everything to the van.

  They checked in with Staelin and Palmer one last time to make sure they had everything they needed and then returned to the rental house.

  When they entered, they expected everyone to be sleeping, but they weren’t. They were all in front of the flat-screen TV in the living room.

  On it were images of incredible devastation. First responders worked feverishly to put out a roaring blaze.

  The on-screen graphics, as well as the commentary, were all in Swedish. “What’s going on?” asked Harvath.

  “There was a bombing in Rome,” said Jasinski, having pulled up the information on her phone. “At least that’s what some outlets are saying. It hasn’t been confirmed yet.”

  “Where did it take place?”

  “Some restaurant on the Piazza Navona.”

  Harvath had just been in Rome, where he had helped disrupt a horrific attack. It seemed that no matter how hard they worked, it wasn’t enough.

  This was why Sloane and Chase would have permanent job security and why he needed to develop Jasinski and a thousand more like her.

  “Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?” he asked. He wanted to know if it was an organization like ISIS, which had specifically listed Rome as a prime target. Something told him, though, that ISIS hadn’t done this.

  Jasinski kept scrolling.

  Sloane was on her phone, too, and said, “An Italian communist newspaper in Rome called Il Manifesto says it received a statement from the PRF within the last hour taking credit. They say the target of the bombing was a former Italian diplomat known to frequent the restaurant, named Giovanni Lorenzo.”

  Jasinski knew the name right away. “Lorenzo used to be Deputy Secretary for NATO.”

  “Is he still involved with the organization?” asked Harvath.

  Sloane searched farther in the article until she found it. “He heads the NATO Defense College Foundation based in Rome.”

  Jasinski looked back up at the terrible images unfolding on TV. “A popular restaurant, on the Piazza Navona, on a Friday night. The list of dead and injured civilians is going to be staggering. All to get to a former diplomat who now runs an NGO. It makes no sense.”

  Harvath looked at her. “It’s horrible, but it makes perfect sense. This is what no rules looks like. This is how you create chaos. The people in Italy are going to be up in arms. And it will spread. Portugal, Spain, Greece—those countries that already lost diplomats—will be next. Then the rest of Europe will begin to bubble over. But that’s not the worst part.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You don’t dial your operation down after an attack like this. You dial it up. If the “PRF” didn’t have the world’s attention before, they do now. Their attacks are going to start getting worse.”

  CHAPTER 32

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It was never a good thing to be unexpectedly summoned to the White House. It was even worse when you had been out drinking.

  Lydia Ryan didn’t need to defend her behavior to her former boss. He had worked with enough spies on both sides of the Iron Curtain (before and after its collapse) to know how much alcohol was part of the espionage business.

  “We’ll keep it informal,” Bob McGee, Director of Central Intelligence, said. “I’ll ask President Porter to see us in the Residence. In the meantime, start hitting the black coffee.”

  “You know that coffee doesn’t counteract booze, right?”

  “Do it,” McGee instructed. “And leave your car where it is. Grab a taxi. I’ll have another cup waiting for you when you get here. Use the East Executive Avenue Gate.”

  When she arrived, McGee was on the other side of security waiting. In one hand was a coffee and in the other was his briefcase. After hanging her badge around her neck, she joined him.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, as he handed her the coffee.

  “I feel like I shouldn’t be here.”

  “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  “This isn’t professional.”

  “Relax, Lydia,” he said. “Do you have any idea how many times advisors have been summoned to the White House after hours? Tons. They’ve had to leave dinner parties, birthday parties, you name it. You’re not the first person to have set foot on the grounds after having had a couple of cocktails.

  “Look at it this way. When you eventually write your memoir, this’ll make for one hell of a chapter. All I ask is that you wait until I’m retired before you publish.”

  Ryan grinned. “Deal,” she said as she fished a tin of Altoids from her purse and popped two into her mouth.

  Together they entered via the East Wing and proceeded to the Residence. President Paul Porter was waiting for them on the second floor in the Treaty Room, just down the hall from the master bedroom.

  The Treaty Room functioned as a less formal office for the President. Near the windows was a large, leather-topped rectangular desk stacked with briefing books. At the other end of the room a large television hung on the wall, tuned to a cable news channel, but with the volume muted.

  A fireplace with a white marble mantel occupied the room’s west wall. Above it hung an enormous gilded mirror.

  Reflected in the mirror was the sitting area on the other side of the room—a pair of leather club chairs, a coffee table, and a very long couch. Hanging over the couch was a vibrant expressionistic oil painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware by American artist Steve Penley. The pops of color and splatters of paint gave the room a much more modern feeling than was present in the rest of the White House.
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br />   As Ryan and McGee were shown into the room, President Porter stood up from behind his desk and walked over to greet them.

  “Bob, Lydia,” he said, shaking their hands. “Thank you for coming.”

  Porter was a lean, rugged outdoorsman with a perpetual tan. Glossy profile pieces often compared him to Teddy Roosevelt. He enjoyed entertaining heads of state at Camp David, where he took pride in showing off the hiking trails he had helped clear.

  The President showed his two guests to the seating area, where he had them sit on the couch while he took one of the chairs.

  He wasted no time getting to the point. “How sure are we that the Russians were behind the bombing tonight in Rome?”

  “Il Manifesto is a small Italian newspaper, but ideologically aligned with what the People’s Revolutionary Front claims to represent,” said McGee. “If they’re looking to gin up support for an anti-NATO movement, there are a lot of fellow travelers in Il Manifesto’s readership. It makes good sense to make the claim of responsibility there first.”

  “First?” said Porter. “Who else have they contacted?”

  Removing a folder from his briefcase, McGee replied, “As of right now, La Repubblica and La Stampa newspapers, as well as RAI and Sky Italia Television.”

  “Where does the death toll stand?”

  McGee flipped to another page. “The restaurant was very crowded. Right now they have more than thirty-five dead and more than a hundred injured.”

  “Do we know anything about the bomb?”

  “Not yet, but the FBI has dispatched a team to help assist the Italians in their investigation.”

  “And this Giovanni Lorenzo?” asked Porter. “Have we confirmed yet if he was present during the attack or what his status is?”