Spymaster Read online

  There were only a handful of Springsteen songs she actually enjoyed, and she was glad to see they had at least one of them. Inserting a bill into the machine, she made her selections.

  As she walked back to her table, the horns from “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out” began playing. It was obvious by the look on the Russian’s face that he’d never heard it before. She flashed him the thumbs-up. Confused, he flashed a thumbs-up back.

  Laughing, Jasinski sat back down.

  “What’s so funny?” Sparrman asked.

  “That guy at the bar,” she replied, nodding toward the Russian.

  “What about him?”

  “I asked what kind of music I should play. He said Springsteen. I don’t think he knows this one. Maybe I should have played “Born in the USA.”

  “His name is Nikolai. You should go back to talk to him,” Sparrman suggested, obviously trying to get rid of her.

  Jasinski looked over at the Russian. “I don’t know. He’s not much of a conversationalist and is even a little scary, to be honest. He’s got a tattoo, of a scorpion, on the inside of his arm.”

  “No. He’s very kind. He’s in charge of the animals on the farm.”

  “You have animals? What kind?”

  “Go ask Nikolai.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Jasinski replied. “You two want to be alone. Not a problem. I’ll be at the bar with Nikolai, I guess.”

  “Thank you,” said Sparrman, who was enthralled with Sloane and not even looking at Jasinski. “Have him buy you a beer. Tell him I said so.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, standing up and stepping away from the table. She hoped that Sloane had understood her message. Sparrman’s farmhands were definitely Spetsnaz. The scorpion was a popular tattoo in a lot of their units.

  Just as Monika had noticed the tattoo, Sloane had noticed that Sparrman had stains on his fingertips. As his leg bounced up and down under the table, she could tell he was jonesing.

  “How long ago did you quit?” she asked.

  “Quit?”

  “Smoking.”

  “How did you know?”

  Sloane smiled coyly, “I can read your mind.”

  “I’m in big trouble then,” Sparrman said with a grin.

  “We’ll see about that. In the meantime, answer my question. How long has it been?”

  “I quit a week ago. Very few Swedes actually smoke, maybe 10 percent of the country. That’s it. My mother, though, hates that I’m part of that 10 percent. I don’t much care what she thinks, but whenever I see her, she bothers me about it. I thought it would be cool, the next time I see her, to be able to say I had quit.”

  Sloane continued to play coy. “You may have quit a week ago, but have you been a good boy? Or have you cheated?” She drew out the word cheated as if she was asking him if he had been sexually mischievous.

  Sparrman’s grin broadened. “I may have cheated once or twice.”

  “I have a secret,” she said, beckoning him closer. She playfully bit her bottom lip, as if she had been bad herself and was contemplating whether to confess. And then she did. “I quit two years ago and I still cheat.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “When,” asked Sparrman, leaning in more closely and trying desperately to be suave, “have you cheated?”

  “There’s really only two occasions when it happens. When I’m drinking,” she replied, running her finger around the lip of her beer bottle, “or if I’ve had really good sex.”

  Though Sparrman tried to hide it, she could see his Adam’s apple move in a quiet gulp. Not only had she hooked him, but he had swallowed the lure. It was time to reel him in.

  “You know what I would love right now?” she asked.

  In his mind, the Swede was saying, Please say sex. What came out of his mouth, though, was. “I don’t know. What would you love?”

  “To share just one cigarette. You and me. The way I look at it, it wouldn’t really be cheating. Not if we shared it. Does that sound like fun?”

  Sparrman wasn’t an idiot. His mother be damned. He was going to have a cigarette with this woman. He could get back on the wagon tomorrow. “It sounds delicious.”

  “Wonderful. Do you have any?”

  “No, but I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” he said.

  Getting up from the table, he quickly crossed to the bar and interrupted Jasinski and Nikolai, asking the muscular Russian for a cigarette.

  The Spetsnaz operative must have known his colleague had been trying to quit smoking, because he rolled his eyes and made a half-hearted attempt at dissuading him. But as he really didn’t care what happened to Sparrman, he removed a pack from his coat pocket and handed it to him along with a cheap plastic orange disposable lighter.

  “Thank you,” said Sparrman, as he tapped out a lone cigarette and handed the pack back.

  “Take the whole thing,” Nikolai insisted in his heavy accent.

  “I only need one.”

  “You never know,” the Russian said with a conspiratorial wink. “Misha has two packs with him. Do not worry.”

  “Thank you,” Sparrman said, clapping his hand on the soldier’s shoulder and then returning to Sloane.

  “Ready?” he asked her, smiling, as he held up the cigarettes.

  Glancing past him, she saw Jasinski at the bar. Their eyes briefly met, but in that split second, the Polish intelligence officer nodded. Game on.

  CHAPTER 41

  * * *

  Sweden had some of the most restrictive smoking laws in the EU. Not only was it illegal to smoke in bars and restaurants, you also couldn’t smoke immediately outside them. Smokers in the Scandinavian country ranked just below lepers.

  Not that Sloane minded. She had never been a smoker in her life. Seeing Sparrman’s nicotine-stained fingers had been a gift. Pay attention to everything—another of Harvath’s rules of tradecraft.

  She had worried that only the promise of a blowjob could have dislodged Sparrman from the premises. Fortunately enough, there was a craving stronger than sex, stronger even than cocaine. Smoking was one of the hardest habits to kick. And once a smoker, always a smoker. It only took the right combination of circumstances to relapse.

  In this case all it took was booze, a little T&A, and probably the stress of Lars Lund’s surveillance and subsequent murder. That is, if Harvath was correct, and it hadn’t been an accident. Like her boss, Sloane had been taught not to believe in coincidences either.

  As she and Sparrman left the restaurant and crossed the patio, she only had one lingering concern. How would Jasinski get out?

  They hadn’t had enough time to cover every eventuality. She had to trust that she’d come up with something.

  Right now, Sloane needed to focus on getting Sparrman into the minivan and getting the hell out of town without his Spetsnaz pals noticing. It was a very dangerous proposition and probably much easier said than done.

  The moment they hit the pavement, the Swede’s hands were all over her. It started with one on her hip. When she didn’t object, it quickly moved to her ass.

  Though this was part of the job, she made a mental note to make sure to squeeze some sort of pain and suffering out of Harvath for it.

  Smiling, she gently brushed his hand aside and began moving away from the entrance, toward the minivan that she knew would be idling at the end of the block.

  Sparrman cooperated for a moment. Then he stopped and pressed her up against the wall, kissing her neck.

  Gathering up the front of his shirt in her fist, she brought him close enough to deliver a vicious head butt, but instead, gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “Slowly,” she cooed. “What’s your rush? Let’s go have our cigarette first.”

  Smiling brightly once more, she gestured for them and Sparrman handed the pack over.

  As if she’d stolen the ball and was heading for the goal, she squealed and ran as best she could, in heels, down the sidewalk.

  Enjoying the g
ame, Sparrman followed, growling and closing in on her with each step.

  At the end of the block, she ducked around the corner, out of his sight. Sparrman wasn’t deterred.

  As she disappeared, he chased right after her, chanting, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

  Coming around the corner, his chants instantly stopped.

  “Hi there,” said Harvath, as the Swede came to a screeching halt right in front of him. Haney had brought back Chase and Staelin, who were standing next to Scot. Sloane was behind them.

  “What the hell is this?” Sparrman demanded. “Who are you?”

  “The tooth fairy,” Harvath replied.

  Stepping forward, Chase deployed his Taser and let the Swede ride the lightning. Instantly the man’s muscles seized and he fell to the ground. Harvath then gave the Go command and everyone sprang into action.

  While Haney backed the minivan up to their position, Staelin Flex-Cuffed Sparrman, put a piece of duct tape over his mouth, and pulled a hood down over his head.

  They had debated disabling the Spetsnaz vehicles, possibly by slashing their tires, but decided instead to make it look as if Sparrman had simply left with a woman he had met in the bar. If they went to the police, that was all they would be able to report.

  Patting him down, Sloane found his car keys and headed off to where she had watched him park.

  Harvath helped Staelin get Sparrman into the minivan and then told him and Haney to get back to the rental house. He and Chase would keep the Camry and join them as soon as they could. First, they had to make sure that Jasinski got out of O’Learys.

  As Haney and Staelin took off with their prisoner, Harvath pulled out his phone and texted a prearranged one-word code to Jasinski: Bootsy.

  • • •

  Back inside O’Learys, Jasinski looked down at her phone, which was sitting atop the bar. Harvath’s text had just come in. It was time to execute her exit plan.

  She had begun looking for ways out the moment she had walked in. It was one of the reasons she had gone to the ladies’ room. Its windows, though, opened onto a small courtyard, framed by the medieval city wall. Without climbing equipment there was no way she was going to be able to get up and over it. It was too tall.

  If they’d had time to prepare, perhaps she could have hidden a length of rope and a pair of athletic shoes, but they’d had to do this on the fly. As she had been trained in the Army, she needed to adapt and overcome. Think, she had told herself. What other ways are there out of here?

  Nikolai was interested in his soccer game, but he was also interested in her. If she got up from her stool, he would want to know where she was going. And despite appearing a bit brutish, he didn’t come off as unintelligent.

  The Russian was paying attention to his surroundings—watching who came and went. Jasinski had a pretty good feeling he had been keeping a mental clock on how long Sparrman had been gone as well. If he saw her walk out the front door, he was going to be very suspicious. He might even follow her. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

  The kitchen was her best shot. From what she could tell, it had a back door of some sort that opened onto a gangway that, she hoped, led to the street. The only problem was that the kitchen could be seen from where they were sitting at the bar. If Nikolai, or any of his comrades, saw her walk in there, they’d immediately suspect something was off.

  The key was to do it without their seeing anything. She needed a quick diversion. It only had to last long enough to get her into and through the kitchen. On her last trip to the ladies’ room, she had seen just the thing.

  Swallowing what was left of her beer, she playfully teased Nikolai with the empty bottle. “Buy me another?” she asked, pretending to be a little more buzzed than she was.

  In the Russian’s estimation, the beers were very expensive. Too expensive. Nevertheless, if he ended up getting laid, the investment would be worth it. The woman was attractive and had put her hand on his arm several times, which was a good sign. She also didn’t talk too much. She seemed content to let him watch the game and talk with his buddies. She was almost too good to be true. Signaling the barman, he gestured to bring the woman another round. If he didn’t end up sleeping with her, he could always insist Sparrman pay him back.

  “Will you excuse me, please?” Jasinski said, as she slid off her stool.

  “Where are you going?” the Russian asked, one eye on the match.

  “To the little girls’ room.”

  The man looked at her, puzzled.

  “The toilet,” she explained.

  “Oh,” said Nikolai, embarrassed, returning his attention to the TV. “Okay.”

  Picking up her phone, she headed for the ladies’ room.

  Once inside, she made sure she was alone, and then unscrewed the pump for one of the soap dispensers. Removing the spring, she screwed the pump head back on and then uncoiled the piece of wire.

  Pulling up Harvath’s message on her phone, she texted him back: Outside in 90 seconds.

  Good copy, Harvath replied. We’ll be waiting.

  Stepping out of the ladies’ room, she approached the breaker box, opened the cover, and threw the breakers. Instantly, the restaurant was plunged into darkness. All the TVs cut out, as did the music.

  Shutting the box, she threaded the piece of wire from the soap dispenser through the area meant for a lock and twisted it as quickly and as tightly as she could. It wouldn’t prevent someone from opening it, but it would slow them down.

  Leaving the circuit breaker, she moved as fast as she could in the darkness to the kitchen.

  Gotland was an island, and as with most islands in Europe, its inhabitants were used to suffering power outages. As a wave of annoyed groans rolled across the establishment, the staff hunted for flashlights while customers activated the lights on their phones. Jasinski made it into the kitchen right before a beam swept over her.

  Taking out her own phone, she activated the flashlight and used it to light her way to the side exit. She was moving with such purpose that no one in the kitchen bothered to question who she was or what she was doing.

  Pushing through the door, she ended up in a narrow gangway between O’Learys and the building next door. Seeing the gate at the end, she ran for it.

  She was only steps away when her eyes zeroed in on the chain and padlock. She’d seen enough security theater in her lifetime not to assume it was locked. Besides, if the restaurant caught fire, the gangway would be a death trap.

  Getting to the gate, she gave the chain a tug. It was definitely locked. Shit.

  The gray Camry had just pulled near the entrance. She could see its taillights. Pulling out her phone, she called Harvath.

  “Back up ten feet,” she told him when he answered. “I’m in the gangway, but the gate is locked.”

  “Can you climb over it?” he asked, as he relayed the instructions to Chase to back up.

  The gate area was covered by a metal roof. It was likely meant to serve as a space where deliveries could be made and inventoried without threat of the elements. Jasinski examined the space, but wasn’t hopeful.

  The gate came up nearly to the underside of the roof. There wasn’t enough room to squeeze in between. There wasn’t enough room to go under it either. Think, she challenged herself once again.

  The only thing in the gangway besides her and the locked gate were stacks of plastic crates used to haul beer bottles. They were her only hope of getting out.

  She was halfway through stacking them when Harvath materialized and began yanking on the gate. It didn’t budge for him either.

  “Hurry,” he said, as he disappeared from view.

  Hurry? she repeated to herself. Did it look to him like she was taking her time?

  Starting with the highest column—the one that would allow her to hop onto the roof—she stacked the crates in descending columns, forming a makeshift staircase.

  It didn’t have to be pretty, and it wasn’t. It only had to work. Fortunately, m
any of the crates were already stacked up against the wall. All she had to do was drag them out and get them into place.

  With the last one set, she began her rickety climb. But no sooner had she begun than there was an angry voice from behind her in the gangway.

  “Stop!” it demanded. The voice belonged to Nikolai.

  When the lights went out, he must have come looking for her, and now he had found her, trying to escape. Running down the gangway, he charged toward her, shouting and cursing in Russian.

  She tried to move faster, but the crates were unstable and wobbled on the uneven cobblestones of the alley. The quicker she moved, the more unbalanced everything became.

  The Russian had reached her staircase now and was kicking and ripping away the crates like a madman.

  He reached for the last stack of them a fraction of a second before she leaped onto the roof. Jasinski knew she was going down before gravity had even taken hold of her.

  But before she could fall, she felt something grab her arm. Looking up, she saw Harvath, who had climbed onto the roof from the street.

  “Give me your other hand,” he said.

  Reaching toward him, she did, and he pulled her the rest of the way up.

  “We’ve got to move,” he said, pointing to the other side of the roof and the sidewalk below it. “Hurry up and jump.”

  Jasinski moved as quickly as she could to the opposite edge, lay down on her stomach, hung her legs over, and dropped to the pavement.

  Looking through the gate, she could see that Nikolai had already run back inside. He would be on the sidewalk in seconds.

  “Get in the car,” Harvath ordered as he jumped down. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  She did as he instructed and her door wasn’t even closed before Chase peeled out. Out the rear window, she could see Harvath running up the street in the opposite direction.

  “Where’s he going?” she asked, as Chase pulled a hard right turn.

  “He changed his mind. He’s disabling their vehicles. We’re picking him up at the next corner.”

  Accelerating up the street, Chase barely tapped the brakes to take the next turn.

  When they got to their rendezvous point, they could see Harvath running toward them, with the Russians in hot pursuit.