Black Ice Read online

  The pain had to be injury-related, or perhaps arthritis. It wasn’t cancer. He was certain of it. This was an overzealous doctor, and doctors, in his experience, only had two speeds: scold and panic. For the moment, the pills were working, helping to minimize the pain. He’d make room in his schedule for an X-ray once he returned to Beijing. Right now, he needed to be completely focused on his assignment.

  His superiors had been adamant that this mission be successful. It had the attention of the people at the very top of the government. He knew better than to disappoint the Politburo. His cousin, a colonel in PLA intelligence, had disappointed them once and had never been seen or heard from again.

  Han didn’t mind a difficult assignment. What he minded was when a difficult assignment was rushed. And that’s what was happening here.

  He preferred the luxury of slipping into a country and getting a feel for things before starting. The Russians, though, had moved up the timetable.

  The United States Navy’s secretive, high-tech submarine the USS Seawolf had recently conducted a very unusual and very public port visit to the Norwegian town of Tromsø.

  It came amid speculation that the Norwegians had leased Olavsvern, a decommissioned, secret submarine base nearby, to the Americans. Though the base, carved into a mountain along the Balsfjorden, had been closed for more than a decade, Russian Intelligence operatives had uncovered multiple visits by United States Navy personnel over the past year.

  The idea that the base might be reopened and that such an advanced submarine might be berthed there, so close to the Russian border, did not sit well with Moscow. Activity in the Arctic was heating up faster than they forecasted, and they intended to maintain superiority. The Chinese would help them do just that.

  Han had mixed feelings about the Russians. They fielded some good fighters, but their technology was substandard. In addition, they were a tribe of brutes. As brutes, they lacked a stratum of capable, scientific professionals.

  The thing that fascinated him the most was that the Russians couldn’t build proper tools. Hammers? Sure. Wrenches? Yes, but not to precision standards. The finer the accuracy required, the better the chance the Russians would screw it up. It was why they had such difficulty putting, and keeping, satellites in space.

  From the Kursk submarine catastrophe to the detonation of a failed nuclear cruise missile they were trying to retrieve from the bottom of the White Sea, year after year, Russian incompetence had proven to be the rule rather than the exception. How they even maintained their nuclear stockpiles, much less avoided another Chernobyl disaster, was beyond him.

  But that incompetence was exactly what had made Beijing’s proposition so appealing. China could offer Russia something it needed and that it would never be able to build for itself—a way to cloak its submarines.

  The Northern Fleet was about to engage in a substantial naval exercise. Two subs and a group of surface vessels were to leave port on the Kola Peninsula, headed for a choke point in the North Atlantic known as the Greenland–Iceland–United Kingdom Gap.

  Moscow wanted proof of concept, certification that the cloaking technology, code-named Black Ice, could do what Beijing claimed. If the test was successful, all Chinese vessels—commercial and, upon proper advance notification, military—would be granted passage through the Northern Sea Route.

  It was the ultimate win-win for both nations. All Han had to do was to make sure the test went off without a hitch.

  Before that could happen, he had to iron out the logistics, which was why he was in Oslo.

  Chinese Special Forces, disguised as research scientists, had already been dispatched to the Svalbard archipelago above the Arctic Circle. Another, smaller contingent, with the help of Consul General Sarov, was in place in Kirkenes.

  Details about how the proof of concept would take place was why he and Sarov had met the previous day.

  Their governments had agreed that confirmation needed to be via a third party—someone not Russian and not Chinese. Their first choice was to have it be done through an American or, barring that, a Norwegian.

  Neither nation’s intelligence service, though, wanted to lay all of their cards on the table and reveal what American and Norwegian agencies they had penetrated and to what depth.

  Han was a fierce negotiator. The tech being offered to the Russians was of significant military value to them. Norway was their backyard. They had undoubtedly turned more assets here than China. It made sense that Moscow should use someone it had on the inside to confirm the proof of concept.

  Sarov couldn’t argue. The man’s reasoning was sound. He told his Chinese colleague that he would contact his superiors and get back to him. Then they left the meeting, each going his own way.

  The next morning, Han received a message. They would be meeting again tonight. Time and place to be determined.

  With the day off, Han had wandered near the hotel, taking care not to put too much wear and tear on his hip.

  The hotel had a pool and so, late in the afternoon, he had taken a swim. The exercise had been enough to get his heart rate up, but not anything to have caused him pain.

  He followed it up with a sauna and shower, after which he stood looking at his reflection in the mirror.

  He wasn’t a handsome man. The years hadn’t been kind to him. Han didn’t care. The creases in his face, the lines at the corners of his eyes—these were chapters in the book of his life. The scars peppering his body were testimonials, firsthand accounts of his survival.

  They each told a different story, but all had the same ending: No matter what obstacle had been placed in his path, no matter how dangerous, he had always come out on top.

  Back in his room, he got dressed, ordered in a light meal, and lay on top of his bed, resting, as he waited for Sarov to contact him.

  It wasn’t his preferred method of doing business—being at the mercy of another country’s intelligence service—but he had been recruited by the MSS because they knew he was the best.

  If the proof of concept worked—and Beijing had no reason to believe it wouldn’t—it meant a huge leap forward for China. And they would have risked next to nothing.

  They were using Russian naval assets and as such were rolling Russian dice. There were much worse ways to test a revolutionary piece of military technology.

  If it scared the hell out of the Americans in the process—which it should—that would just be icing on the cake.

  CHAPTER 17

  Harvath had just entered the checkout line, pushing an overloaded grocery cart while dragging another behind, when his phone chimed. Nicholas had an update for him.

  “What did you find?” he asked as he began unloading the carts for the checkout clerk.

  “First of all, thanks for making it easy.”

  “What do you mean, easy?”

  “I’m being facetious. The name Han Guang is using, Zhang Wei, is the equivalent of John Smith. There are hundreds of thousands of them. It’s the most common name in all of China.”

  “How many in Norway?”

  “Right now? Six.”

  “And in Oslo?”

  “Two.”

  They were narrowing it down. Harvath was encouraged. “And which of those two arrived yesterday?”

  “Both of them,” Nicholas repeated. “They came in on the same flight.”

  “What about hotels?”

  “We caught a break. They’re both at the Radisson Blu Plaza on Sonja Henies Plass.”

  “I know it,” he said, drawing the clerk’s attention to the cases of water underneath the cart that needed to be scanned. “Do you have room numbers or passport information?”

  “Not yet,” the little man replied. “I’m still working on it.”

  It was great information. They had come a long way in winnowing down the haystack. Now they knew which hotel their needle was in.

  “I’m going to drop the groceries off at the house and then position myself in the lobby,” he said. “Let me know
when you are wheels down in Oslo.”

  After disconnecting the call, he paid for everything, got it bagged, and loaded it into his car. The supplies took up the trunk as well as a portion of the backseat.

  Via GPS, he drove to the safe house. There, locating the keys, he opened the front gate, drove into the courtyard, and parked.

  The house was old and somewhat musty, but it would do. It was a five-star palace compared to some of the places he had spent the night in.

  It took a few minutes to unload everything, but once the task was complete, he texted Sølvi, hopped into his car, and exited out onto the street.

  After locking everything back up and stashing the keys in a new hiding spot, he then headed for the Radisson.

  Until Nicholas had ascertained which two rooms their Zhang Weis were in, all they could do was general surveillance.

  Even once they had narrowed it down to the exact room, it was hard to foresee anything other than layering in electronic measures. And that would depend upon what kind of equipment Nicholas had brought with him.

  Their standard kit was pretty good. Nothing like what the NSA people used, but solid nonetheless. The problem would be translating any communications that weren’t in English. Nicholas supposedly had access to a group of interpreters at Langley and they were said to be standing by in case they were needed.

  Without evidence of an imminent threat, there wasn’t much more Harvath and his team could do beyond watching and listening. Though they had run plenty of snatch operations against bad actors, this hadn’t risen to that level. Yet.

  Pulling up to the Radisson, he withdrew the biggest banknote he had and asked the valet to keep the car close.

  At thirty-seven stories, it was the tallest building in Oslo. Sølvi had brought him here for dinner shortly after he had arrived in Norway. The views from the hotel’s signature restaurant on the thirty-fourth floor were incredible.

  As he entered the hotel through the automatic revolving door, he was awash in a sea of marble. From the dramatic floating staircase and massive columns to the gleaming floors and tasteful black-and-white-striped walls and front desk, the Radisson Blu was an homage to modern Scandinavian design.

  He found a seat in the lobby bar with an unobstructed view and sat down. When the waitress came over, he ordered a coffee.

  As she walked away, he studied the stream of tourists, most of whom appeared to be on their way out to dinner or returning from a long day of sightseeing.

  The glamorous life of a spy, he mused to himself, wondering if he should have spiked his coffee with a shot of espresso to help keep him awake. Surveillance could be mind-numbing.

  On the plus side of the ledger, Harvath’s target had no idea who he was, what he looked like, or that he was onto him. That meant Harvath had the advantage.

  On the other side of the ledger, Harvath had no idea if Han was even in or near the hotel right now, how he might be disguised, or which doors he used to come and go. If it turned out he had chosen the Radisson because he wanted to blend in with the Chinese guests, using the main entrance made the most sense.

  When the waitress came back, she set Harvath’s coffee down, along with a glass of water, and told him to let her know if he wanted anything else. That was one of the things he loved about Europe: You could sit all day, or evening, over a cup of coffee and no one would bother you. It made waiting out a surveillance target that much easier. And, as luck would have it, he didn’t have to wait that long.

  He was just finishing his coffee and about to order a second, when Han appeared.

  Rounding the front desk, he crossed the lobby and headed toward the front doors. Harvath took in Han’s clothing, especially his shoes and trousers, which likely wouldn’t change. Then, paying cash for his coffee, he stood up, made sure to hang far enough back, and followed Han out of the hotel.

  Even though the days were still long for this time of year, when Harvath stepped outside, the Oslo sun had already set and the blue-black fingers of evening were threading themselves through the city.

  The darkness would make it harder to track Han, but hopefully it would also make Harvath more difficult to detect. Reaching into his pocket, he double-checked and made sure his phone was set to Silent.

  It was a busy night, with cars and taxis stacked up in the hotel driveway and a steady stream of traffic out on the street.

  Harvath followed his quarry as the Chinese operative skirted the adjacent concert arena and headed northwest. Han continued to practice good tradecraft, using appropriate opportunities to subtly check and see if he had a tail. Harvath’s tradecraft, though, was better. Han had no idea he was being followed.

  The good news for Harvath was that Han hadn’t tried to hail a cab or climb aboard any public transportation. He also hadn’t ducked into a shop or a restaurant in order to be out of view to change his appearance.

  Harvath had been ready for any and all of those possibilities, but, mercifully, none of them had transpired. It was a straightforward, feet-on-the-street, eyes-on-the-prize situation. Han had given him the slip once before. He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  The key to not blowing the surveillance—beyond staying out of the man’s field of vision—was keeping what a buddy had once referred to as his Fuck you energy in check.

  Without saying a word, without even being seen, he had the ability to make the hairs on the back of a man’s neck stand up. Right now, though, he was all about remaining invisible and so dialed it as far down as he could.

  He followed Han for ten more uneventful minutes. The operative turned corners, crossed streets, twice doubled back, and even came to a full stop to thumb out a text message on his phone—only to return to his northwest heading.

  The farther they proceeded, the rougher the neighborhood became. Harvath was seeing lots of graffiti.

  On a street named Bernt Ankers gate, they passed a construction site. It was an old, empty apartment building surrounded by scaffolding. He watched as Han located an unlocked door and vanished inside.

  Harvath had a million questions. Chief among them: What the hell was Han up to? Was this his final destination? Or was he merely passing through and planning to exit out a different, unseen door?

  There was only one way Harvath was going to get any answers. He was going to have to follow Han inside.

  CHAPTER 18

  Closing the door silently behind him, Harvath paused to let his eyes get adjusted. There was much less ambient lighting inside than there was out on the street.

  The old building had been completely gutted. Cracked plaster, sawdust, and pieces of broken brick and stone lay all over. The tracks of workmen’s boots across the floor were so numerous that it was impossible to tell which prints belonged to Han and which way he had gone.

  Metal frames, which presumably had held a set of security doors, were all that could be seen still standing in the vestibule area. Up against the far wall were rows of dented apartment mailboxes. A poorly lit stone staircase led up to the next level.

  Harvath strained his ears but couldn’t hear a sound. Wherever Han was, he was exceedingly quiet. He didn’t like it.

  He removed the compact tactical flashlight he carried in his pocket and clasped it in his left hand, his thumb poised over the tail cap. It wasn’t as good as having a pistol—not even close—but a burst from its strobe was better than nothing, and might even buy him a second to get out of the way or get to his folding knife if he needed it.

  He did a quick sweep of the ground floor and then approached the stairs. They curved up and to the right, the landing obscured from view. Once again he stopped and listened but didn’t hear anything. There was only one way to go.

  The two things he hated most in these kinds of situations were stairs and hallways. They both left you dangerously exposed.

  He moved quickly and as soundlessly as possible. The less time he spent on the stairs, the better.

  At the landing, there was a cheap wooden door topped with a p
neumatic closing mechanism. He reached for the handle, his flashlight at the ready, and slowly pulled it open.

  The hallway on the other side was narrow and lined with a handful of doors, one of which was slightly ajar. A faint light could be seen coming from the other side. For a moment, he thought he could hear voices.

  He crept toward it, praying he wouldn’t kick an errant piece of construction debris or hit a groaning floorboard. The other thing he prayed for was that if Han was on the other side of that door and talking to someone, he was speaking English. Harvath didn’t speak any Chinese and his Russian wasn’t that hot.

  As he arrived at the door, he could hear that the voices were speaking in Norwegian. Then, as a jingle began to play, he realized what he was hearing. One of the construction workers must have left a radio on.

  Pausing, he listened one last time for any signs of actual life. There was nothing other than the radio. He pushed the door back just far enough and stepped inside the apartment.

  It was in the process of being gutted. A construction light on a tripod in the bedroom was the source of the illumination he had seen. It was also where the radio was. He decided to investigate.

  The bedroom, the bathroom, and the closet were all empty. There was no sign anyone other than workers had been inside the apartment.

  He needed to get moving. This detour had already cost him too much time. Wherever Han was, his lead was growing, and Harvath was determined not to lose him a second time.

  Not wanting to be silhouetted in the doorframe on his way out, he turned off the construction light. He did the same with the radio.

  Moving back to the front door, he stopped and listened. The hallway was quiet, but something didn’t feel right.

  If Han was out there playing peekaboo with him, he was going to be pissed. And when he was pissed, it usually didn’t end well for the other guy.