Spymaster Page 5

  “Concern is running very high—the highest it has been since the Cold War. And Russia hasn’t exactly been doing anything to lower that concern.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ryan rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine. “So many provocative acts. How much time do you have?”

  “As much time as you need,” the Pole replied. He wasn’t kidding. In fact, his tone was dead serious.

  In no particular order, Ryan went down the list. “The annexation of Crimea, continued military operations in eastern Ukraine, repeated violations of U.S. and NATO airspace, the use of a nerve agent to assassinate a former Russian intelligence operative on U.K. soil, and the buildup of Russian troops and equipment in its western district, as well as in Russia’s client state of Belarus—both of which are right on NATO’s doorstep.”

  “We’ve been monitoring it, too,” said Kopec. “Russia, though, claims they’re simply prepositioning in advance of a new war-gaming exercise.”

  “A previously unscheduled war-gaming exercise.”

  The Pole shrugged. “They’re a sovereign nation. They can schedule snap military exercises. They have done it before. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re preparing for an invasion.”

  “Is that what Poland believes?”

  “Poland’s position is Ronald Reagan’s famous position—trust, but verify.”

  “Well, any trust Russia may have enjoyed with the United States has been swept away by their own actions. The current position of American intelligence, unfortunately, is to distrust first and work tirelessly to verify.”

  “That’s not only unfortunate, but it’s extremely dangerous,” said Kopec. “In such an unstable climate, there’s less margin for error. War becomes much more possible.”

  “I agree,” she replied. “I wish it weren’t so, but that is where we are.”

  “So, back to the business at hand,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If you cannot discuss how many missiles there are, let’s talk about the number of road-mobile launchers.”

  Ryan shook her head. “I cannot comment on that either.”

  Kopec understood that she was limited in what she could divulge. The key lay in coming up with the right questions. “What about warheads? Are any of them nuclear-tipped?”

  Once again, the look on her face said it all. Jackpot.

  “Jesus, Lydia,” he muttered. “No wonder you don’t want my government involved. What kind of yield are we talking about?”

  “I can’t go into detail.”

  “I’m going to need something. Are they strategic or tactical? How about that?”

  She was slow to answer. They were on very dangerous ground.

  “From what I understand,” said Ryan, “they’re tactical. Low-yield if that makes any difference or makes you feel any better.”

  “Not really.” Kopec knew that the presence of smaller, low-yield “battlefield” nukes only meant they were more likely to get used. And once tactical nukes were in play, the larger, much more devastating strategic nukes were only a step away.

  “Artur, if this gets out, understand that the United States is going to deny any knowledge.”

  “They can deny it all they want, but if even one of your upgrade kits turns up on Polish television or in one of our newspapers, you’ll be in a bad spot.”

  “Which is why I’m asking for your help,” she replied. “The car park where the robbery took place has CCTV cameras. Do you have people back in Poland you trust? Someone you can put on this?”

  The man thought for a moment and then nodded.

  Pressing forward with the toe of her beige pump, she slid the blue and gold Brooks Brothers bag nearer to Kopec. “I think I got your size right. You can keep the shirt. The file’s underneath.”

  “What about expenses? I may need to spread some money around.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand for starters. If this is some low-level criminal operation stealing from parked cars, I may not even need it.”

  “And if it’s something else?”

  “I may need more. Possibly a lot more.”

  She understood. “You’ll provide me with an account?”

  Kopec removed a tiny pen and a small pad of paper from his jacket pocket. Writing down a bank name and a series of numbers, he tore off the page, folded it in half, and slid it across the table.

  With that part of their business—for the moment—complete, he turned back to the subject of Lydia’s boss. Raising his glass, he offered a toast. “To Reed Carlton. A fine intelligence officer and an even finer gentleman.”

  They clinked glasses and drank. A silence then fell over the table. An accomplished intelligence officer herself, Ryan knew better than to move to fill it.

  Eventually, it was Kopec who spoke. “I’d like to see him; spend some time with him, before he passes.”

  She had expected the request. In fact, she had rehearsed her response. Even so, she spoke her next words carefully.

  If the Polish spy-runner sensed anything was off, it would be the end of everything.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  HAINAUT PROVINCE, BELGIUM

  FRIDAY

  Harvath and his team had set up shop in a semirestored, seventeenth-century fortified “chateau.” It didn’t look much like a chateau to him. It looked more like an elongated, three-story farmhouse, surrounded by a high stone wall.

  The property was at the end of a gravel road in the Belgian countryside, halfway between the Brussels South Airport in Charleroi and NATO’s Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE) in Mons.

  “What is this place?” Jasinski asked as they approached.

  “It’s a rental,” said Harvath. “Belongs to a Belgian businessman. He was transferred to Thailand with his family. We found it online.”

  As their car neared the gates, two serious-looking men materialized on the other side. After confirming the driver was Harvath, they unfastened the lock and opened the gates so the vehicle could enter.

  Though they were wearing jackets, Jasinski had no doubt they were armed. Both had earpieces.

  “Pool boy and the gardener?” she asked.

  Harvath smiled as he drove forward into the motor court and parked.

  Getting out of the car, he introduced the two men. “Monika Jasinski, I’d like you to meet Jack Gage and Matt Morrison.”

  Gage, who looked to be in his forties, was an enormous man. He stood six-foot-three with a thick, dark beard and had a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth.

  Morrison was a few inches shorter and several years younger. He looked to be in his early thirties and stood about five-foot-eleven. He offered his hand first and Monika shook it, followed by Gage’s. When he extended his hand, she could see a paperback novel tucked inside his coat.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “The Terminal List. It’s a thriller by a guy named Jack Carr,” Gage answered.

  “Any good?”

  “Considering the author is a former SEAL and can even string his sentences together, it’s amazing.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Monika saw Harvath raise his middle finger and use it to massage his left temple. There appeared to be a little interservice rivalry going on here.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re Army?”

  Gage nodded. “Was. Fifth Special Forces Group.”

  “Which makes the fact that he can read even more amazing,” jibed Morrison.

  That got a laugh out of Jasinski. “And you?” she asked.

  “United States Marine Corps,” he replied with an Alabama drawl. “Recon.”

  “Where the motto is,” said Gage, “when you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, just riddle them with bullets.”

  Jasinski laughed again.

  “You don’t have to laugh,” Harvath deadpanned, though it was pleasant to see her smile for the first time. “Their jokes aren’t that good.”

  In unison, both
Gage and Morrison raised a middle finger and began massaging their temples.

  Harvath shook his head. “Are you two joining us for lunch?”

  “We couldn’t get a reservation,” replied Morrison.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be,” offered Gage. “Your chef’s a little too temperamental for my taste.”

  Harvath shook his head once more as he led Jasinski away from the car.

  In addition to the main structure, there was a garage and a small stone guesthouse. She was studying its tiny windows when the door opened and an equally tiny man, accompanied by two enormous white dogs, stepped out.

  “Who’s that?”

  “That’s my secret weapon,” said Harvath. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

  The moment the two dogs saw Harvath, they began wagging their tails. They never left the little man’s side, though, until he whispered some sort of a command and they raced forward.

  “Five minutes or five months,” stated Harvath, scratching them behind the ears. “It’s always the same welcome.”

  “I’m beginning to believe they like you more than me,” said the little man, as his small boots crunched across the gravel motor court.

  He couldn’t have been more than three feet tall. His salt-and-pepper hair was long enough to be swept back behind his ears. He had a neatly trimmed beard and wore jeans and an Irish fisherman’s sweater.

  “Nicholas,” he offered, sticking his hand up so she could shake it.

  “Pleased to meet you,” replied Jasinski, bending down. “I’m Monika.”

  “Are you hungry, Monika?”

  “I am.”

  “Good, because lunch is ready. Let’s go inside.”

  When Harvath had called her for lunch, this wasn’t what she had expected. They had each left Norway the same way they had arrived—separately. NATO had arranged for her to hop a ride on a military transport. Harvath had remained behind for a day with Carl Pedersen. He wanted to see what, if anything, the Norwegian forensics team pulled from the ashes of the cabin. It turned out to be a bust.

  As Harvath was a special consultant to SHAPE, Jasinski had assumed he and anyone working with him would have been issued offices on the Mons campus. Stepping into the guesthouse, she realized these were his offices.

  The building had low ceilings with exposed timber beams. Taped to the plaster walls were countless maps, photographs, and computer-printed documents. There was a large whiteboard with notes in multiple colors of dry-erase marker. Makeshift desks held rugged laptops or keyboards and large monitors. In the corner stood a rack of hard drives. Multiple muted, flat-panel television sets were tuned to different twenty-four-hour news channels.

  This wasn’t a domicile. It was a control center. And at that moment, she knew her hunch was correct about who the little man was.

  The Troll was infamous in intelligence circles. He was a purveyor of highly sensitive, often classified information. He bought it, sold it, traded it, and stole it. He had an amazing list of clients around the world and an equally amazing list of enemies. The intel he trafficked in had been used to disrupt covert operations, blackmail politicians, and bring down governments.

  “You’re the—” she began.

  “Not anymore,” he replied, cutting her off as he climbed onto a stepstool to reach the stove in the open kitchen—the smells from which were delicious. “Now, I’m just Nicholas.”

  She noticed he spoke English with a slight accent. “You’re working with the Americans?”

  “I am an American,” he beamed. “Recently minted.”

  “I give up,” she said. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Nicholas as he lifted the lids off several pots and pans and began plating their lunch. “It will eventually make sense.”

  “Or it won’t,” said Harvath as he examined a new photograph that had been added to the wall.

  Jasinski lowered her voice. “Is he always like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Such an asshole.”

  The little man smiled. “He’s just testing you.”

  “For what?”

  “He doesn’t like people who blindly follow orders. He wants you to think for yourself, to think outside the box. Don’t worry, he’s a Teddy bear.”

  “I heard that,” Harvath replied from the living room.

  The little man smiled at her and, nodding at the plates, asked for her help in carrying everything out to the table.

  He then encouraged Harvath and Jasinski to sit, while he fished a bottle of white Burgundy out of the fridge.

  “I actually found a very nice 2014,” he said, bringing the bottle over and handing it to Harvath, along with a corkscrew.

  Harvath looked at his watch. As long as they didn’t open a second, they’d be okay. It might also help to further take the edge off of Jasinski.

  He had decided to read her in, and a lot of it was going to come as a shock.

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  For a man of such small stature, Nicholas’s appetites far outstripped his size. One of his most troubling predilections, at least from a security standpoint, had been Nicholas’s appetite for women. Because of his primordial dwarfism, he had been accustomed to paying for sex. And not just any kind of sex.

  As with his passion for food, the little man had been a gourmand in the realm of exotic sexual practices. The pool within which he could “fish” for the right professionals was quite limited. Eventually, one of his enemies had discovered the highly secretive service he employed. An assassin was dispatched and Nicholas had almost died.

  Those days, though, were behind him. An intriguing woman named Nina had become a permanent fixture in his life. She understood not only who he now was, but also why.

  Once his adversary, Scot Harvath had become Nicholas’s friend. He had realized his talents and had given him an opportunity to go from an international fugitive to being one of the key players of his team. Even Reed Carlton, who had been highly suspicious, eventually grew to trust and respect him. In fact, it was Carlton who had convinced the President of the United States to pardon his past offenses and make him a citizen.

  For the first time since his parents had abandoned him at a brothel, Nicholas had the one thing he had always wished for—people who cared for him and a semblance of an actual family.

  As Harvath poured, the little man explained what he had prepared. The wine was from France, but everything else was classic Belgian. There was tomate crevette, ham and endive gratin, and sole meunière.

  Before they dug in, Jasinski had a question. Ever since she had entered the guesthouse, music had been playing. It sounded familiar and she thought she recognized the artist. “Have we been listening to George Clinton and Parliament-Funkadelic this whole time?”

  Nicholas looked at Harvath and grinned. “I like her. A lot.”

  Both men were fans of funk music in general, and George Clinton and Parliament-Funkadelic in particular. The fact that Jasinski recognized what they were listening to said a lot about her. Good taste in music wasn’t easy to come by.

  As they ate, they made small talk. Harvath hoped to bond with her and get to know her better. In order to facilitate a conversation, he opened up—a little.

  Referring to the back-and-forth that had taken place at the gate, she asked about his military background. Harvath explained that he had been a Navy SEAL.

  When she asked which team, he told her. “I started at Team Two and ended up at Team Six. They now call it Development Group, or DEVGRU for short.”

  He described how he had caught the attention of the Secret Service and had worked for the White House, after which he gradually moved into the role he was now in.

  “As a consultant,” she repeated, the skepticism evident in her voice.

  “If it flies, floats, or fights—chances are I have consulted on it,” he replied with a smile, taking a sip of his wine.

  There was
something devilish about him. He reminded her of someone from her past—someone she had loved very much, someone who had been taken from her way too soon.

  She glanced at his left hand again, as she had when they’d first met, and there was still no ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Plenty of operators removed their wedding bands when they were away on assignments.

  “Let’s stop playing games,” she said. “You’ve been holding out on me. I want to know what’s going on.”

  He smiled. She was the right choice for this job. Her intelligence and her instincts were excellent.

  Leaning back in his chair, Harvath picked up a folder from the credenza behind him and set it on the table. Opening it, he removed three photographs and slid them toward her. “Do you recognize these?”

  Jasinski looked at them and nodded. “They’re crime scene photos from the attacks on the NATO diplomats in Portugal, Spain, and Greece. In Lisbon a high-powered rifle was used, in Madrid a rather sophisticated car bomb, and in Thessaloniki a .45 handgun was fired by a passenger on the back of a motorcycle.”

  “Correct,” said Harvath. “The victims all worked for NATO and all the attacks happened in NATO countries. What else did they have in common?”

  She thought for a moment. “Allegedly, they were carried out by the same organization—some new terrorist group called the People’s Revolutionary Front.”

  “Exactly,” said Harvath. “Except the PRF isn’t real.”

  “What?” asked Jasinski, confused.

  “The People’s Revolutionary Front is all made up. It isn’t real.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a two-pronged attack against NATO. The first part involves the attacks themselves. They’re meant to create an internal panic and drain NATO resources as SHAPE moves to secure all their diplomats and facilities while simultaneously hunting down the perpetrators.

  “Then there’s the propaganda component. With each attack, the PRF puts out a gratuitous statement, describing NATO as an imperialist organization, propped up by global corporations, committed to war, conquest, and profiteering, among a host of other false charges. Each attack gets them even more news coverage.