Shadow of Doubt, page 8
Conroy handed back her iPad. “Nuclear weapons have only been used twice in war. Both times, it was by the United States—Hiroshima and then Nagasaki. That was almost eighty years ago. If Russia is preparing to do the unthinkable, we need to know, so we can stop it. And to do that, the intel has to be something we can actually take to POTUS and the National Security Council. A horse wrapped in Lycra isn’t going to cut it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get back to work and find me something.”
“Yes, boss,” she responded as she gathered her things and headed for the door.
“And Maggie,” Conroy called after her. “Do it fast.”
CHAPTER 12
OSLO
The exploding drones had drawn first responders from across the city. Emergency service vehicles, their light bars flashing, were parked and double-parked everywhere. With only two small bridges, both of which Norwegian police had already closed, no one was getting on or off of the island of thieves. At least not via land.
Once Harvath was in place, he sent Sølvi a final text. It contained just one word. Now.
Positioned at the water’s edge, it was not unusual to see guests from the Thief Hotel’s spa, wrapped in thick terry-cloth robes, venture out for a plunge in the Oslofjord. When Sølvi and Grechko exited, that’s exactly what they looked like.
Sølvi’s long blond hair was wrapped in a towel and Grechko had slung one over his head like a hoodie, so as to help disguise themselves. They wore rubber spa slippers and had rolled their pant legs up under their robes. Other than that they were fully dressed. Sølvi carried their socks, shoes, and the gear she had predeployed in the hotel room, in a backpack slung over her shoulder.
Slipping her arm through Grechko’s, she encouraged him to walk slowly and to focus straight ahead. She kept her free hand wrapped around the grip of her pistol, which was tucked inside her robe. It was less than two hundred meters to the water.
As she walked, she kept her head down, occasionally leaning it against Grechko’s shoulder in what looked like an affectionate gesture, but which in actuality allowed her to steal glances off to the sides. So far, so good. No one appeared to be following them. Everyone she saw was headed in the opposite direction, back toward the scene of the explosions.
After a few more moments, she spotted Harvath, his boat bobbing on the water. He had spotted her as well. She could hear the gurgling of the engines as he put the vessel in gear and came in toward the shore.
She guided Grechko down to the swim platform, where Harvath ignored the NO BOATS signs and pulled alongside the landing.
As he did, he saw a flash of recognition ripple across the Russian’s visage. But just as quickly as it had materialized, it vanished. Had Harvath not been trained to notice such things, he might have missed it.
He had never seen Grechko before in his life, yet the man appeared to know who he was. It was slightly unsettling.
Setting it aside for the moment, he helped the Russian climb aboard and then extended his hand to Sølvi, asking, “All good?”
She looked back in the direction they had come, scanned the shoreline one last time, and then, not seeing anything that would suggest that they had been followed, accepted his hand and stepped into the boat.
“All good,” she replied. “Where do you want us?”
“Down there,” he stated, gesturing at the small cabin under the bow. “Just until we get away from the city.”
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a quick kiss before disappearing with Grechko below.
Pushing away from the swim platform, he put the engines back in gear and headed out into the fjord.
Most of the police marine units were on the other side of the island, but one did come flying past and he was glad that Sølvi and Grechko were out of sight. There was no telling if anyone was actively looking for them yet. If they weren’t, they would be soon. It was going to be up to Sølvi how she wanted to handle that.
He had a bunch of questions, all of which would have to wait until they got to their destination. His only focus right now was getting them there safely.
* * *
Once they had passed the lighthouse at the tip of the Nesodden peninsula, the coast, as well as the water around them, was clear. Reaching down, he opened the cabin door and let his passengers know that it was safe to come up topside.
Sølvi made introductions, first names only. “Scot, Leonid. Leonid, Scot.”
The two men shook hands.
As they did, Harvath decided that he wasn’t in the mood for all the cloak-and-dagger bullshit. “Have you and I met before, Mr. Grechko?”
“No, we have not.”
“Interesting. Because back at the dock, it was clear that you recognized me.”
“I wouldn’t have been very good at my job if I didn’t. Your reputation, particularly in Russian intelligence circles, preceeds you, Mr. Harvath.”
Harvath took a smug pleasure in hearing that. It was a matter of personal pride that he kept so many Russians awake at night.
“Glad to know my work is appreciated,” he replied.
Grechko frowned. “Some of it, perhaps. But definitely not all of it.”
Sølvi patted the gunwale and changed the subject. “Good to see the old girl again,” she stated.
Harvath knew her well enough to know what she was doing. Grechko was her assignment; her responsibility. He didn’t need to like the Russian, but he did need to maintain his professionalism. If nothing else than for her.
“We were lucky,” he replied, accepting the subject change. “With the warmer-than-usual weather, they hadn’t pulled her from the water yet.”
It also didn’t hurt that the boat’s owner liked Harvath. Not many Americans who came to Oslo rented a boat for the whole summer, paid in advance, and brought it back in pristine condition.
The owners of the cottage they were headed to felt the same way. Harvath had been the perfect tenant, paying in advance for the summer and fixing anything he saw in need of repair. Just like the boat owner, when Harvath had called at the last minute in need of a favor, the cottage owners had been more than happy to oblige. The key was in the same spot and he was welcome to stay as long as he wanted. There were no other renters on the books.
It was only late afternoon when they arrived, but the sun was already going down. After tying up the boat and opening the cottage, Harvath walked into the village for supplies.
He hadn’t realized until halfway through the summer that the village had played an important role in the Norwegian resistance movement during World War II.
A small, clandestine radio station had been hidden in one of the cottages. It was manned by three brave undercover agents who belonged to the main Norwegian resistance organization, Milorg.
In April 1944, the Nazis finally zeroed in on it and launched an ambush, killing the resistance operatives and leaving their bloody bodies behind as a warning to the rest of the village.
A brass plaque, which Sølvi translated for him, had been placed to commemorate the station and the valiant men who lost their lives.
The whole story had only endeared the village even more to Harvath’s heart. It was full of good, neighborly people who were happy to engage in conversation, while at the same time respecting boundaries and not being too nosy. They were solid.
The stockboy at the grocery store remembered him from over the summer and, after checking with his assistant manager, agreed to give him a lift back to the cottage. This allowed Harvath to buy not only the groceries he wanted, but also a couple of bundles of firewood, and to hit the government-owned liquor store known as the Vinmonopolet, or Polet for short. Eschewing his credit card, he paid for everything in cash.
Back at the cottage, he tipped the stockboy two hundred kroner, about twenty bucks, thanked him for the ride, and told him he didn’t need any help getting the groceries inside.
Once the young man drove out of sight, Sølvi stepped outside to give Harvath a hand. But before she could touch a single bag, he pulled her in tight and just held her.
They stood there in their embrace without saying a word. Neither needed to speak. He had made it back from his string of operations without being killed only to almost lose her today. And in downtown Oslo of all places. They both knew how lucky they were to be holding each other.
He could feel some of the stress leaving her body as her muscles relaxed. After a few more moments, however, he sensed a shift. The tension had returned. She had clicked back into work mode. He gave her an extra squeeze and let her go.
Tucking a lock of her long blond hair behind her ear, she looked down at all the groceries.
“You even went to the Polet,” she remarked.
“After the day you’ve had, I thought you might need a drink.”
“You have no idea.”
Together, they carried the bags inside, where Harvath slid the bottle of vodka into the freezer and then helped unpack everything else.
Once they were done, he got a fire started in the fireplace and suggested they sit down and debrief about what had happened at the safehouse while it was still fresh.
CHAPTER 13
The details of the assault were brutal. The knowledge that Martin, a man Harvath had known, had been ripped in half by one of the explosions was gut-wrenching. Every part of the attack was terrible. It had been an absolute bloodbath.
Once they had each shared their version of events, Harvath had walked them back through, probing for even the smallest of details. Nothing in a situation like this was ever inconsequential. The smallest clue could have the biggest of impacts, but only if it was surfaced and brought to light.
Unfortunately, what Sølvi and Grechko remembered were the explosions, the fire, the smoke, and the gunshots. These were the strongest, most overwhelming elements of the nightmare they had just been through.
To her credit, Sølvi could also remember some of the details about the assaulters and their equipment. It was all top-of-the-line gear. The men themselves were disciplined and well trained. Rappelling in through broken windows suggested an advanced military or special police unit background. Not carrying phones or ID further suggested the attackers were professionals. In the end, these were not a handful of thugs rounded up at a local biker bar.
The exceedingly indiscriminate use of force, coupled with the audacity of an attack in broad daylight, also told him something. Subtlety was not their calling card. The entire operation had “Russia” written all over it. It had probably been planned and carried out by a team of Russian Special Forces Spetsnaz soldiers.
Regardless of who the assaulters were, there was no question in Harvath’s mind as to what their objective had been—Grechko. But was their assignment to kill or to capture him? As far as Harvath was concerned, the answer was probably either.
Detonating high-grade explosives outside the curtained windows of the safehouse meant they could not know who would be killed or injured inside. The van waiting down in the parking garage, while providing exfiltration for the attackers, could have also been used to spirit Grechko away. If the assaulters could have taken him alive and interrogated him, it would have allowed Moscow to learn how much top-secret information he had already revealed to Norwegian Intelligence.
Which brought Harvath to the next piece of this entire debacle—how the hell had they found the safehouse?
It was a discussion he didn’t want to have in front of Grechko. Grabbing a blanket, they left the Russian inside and walked out onto the deck, where Harvath poured them each a glass of wine.
“I have no idea how they found us,” said Sølvi, after taking a long sip and closing her eyes for a moment. “The only answer is that we must have a leak somewhere.”
“How many people knew about the safehouse?”
“To be honest, I don’t know the exact number.”
“Approximately,” Harvath replied. “Five people? Fifteen? Twenty?”
“We rotated two security teams on and off, so that’s twelve people right there. The safehouse is paid for out of a secret budget, which less than five people at Norwegian Intelligence have access to. Weapons and vehicles needed to be approved, but that doesn’t involve the location of the safehouse.”
“Anyone else?”
“I’m not the first person at NIS to have used that safehouse. Others knew about it, but its existence was classified.”
“As was Grechko’s defection,” Harvath stated.
Sølvi nodded. “I used a special tactical team to handle it. From the moment he drove up to our border, we had eyes on him. We even had one of our people in the booth, assessing him. He was followed and surveilled all the way to the rendezvous. Not until we were completely sure that it wasn’t some sort of Russian trick did we make contact.”
“And then what?”
“Straight to the airfield and, after guaranteeing he was clean of any hidden electronic devices, we brought him back to Oslo via private jet.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she replied, taking another sip of wine, before asking, “How did you know we had him?”
“Holidae didn’t say.”
“Did you ask her?”
Harvath nodded. “All she said was that the intelligence was solid.”
“It would appear that both the Russians and the Americans each have at least one spy inside the Norwegian Intelligence Service. That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not. What do you want to do?”
“I want to do my job and complete Grechko’s debrief.”
“Here?” Harvath asked.
“Why not?”
“Because by now, the NIS already knows you and Grechko are missing. They are going to stop at nothing to find you. That means interviewing your friends and colleagues, several of whom spent time with us here over the summer. I give it twenty-four hours tops before someone is sent to check out the cottage.”
“Damn it,” Sølvi muttered in frustration.
Harvath tried to reassure her. “You’ve got a protocol, right? A PACE plan. Primary, alternate, contingency, emergency order of communications?”
She looked at him. “There is no protocol, no PACE plan when your agency has been compromised. I have no idea who I can trust.”
“I hear you. But none of this is your fault, okay?”
“This was my assignment. I’m responsible. For everything.”
“Shit happens. Sometimes it can be really bad. Missions go sideways. You were a soldier. You know that. Even if you did fuck up somewhere, none of that matters now. You got Grechko out of there, you’re both alive, and you’ve bought yourself a little breathing room. Those are wins. Big wins. Take them. Keep trusting your instincts. That’s all that matters.”
Sølvi didn’t know how to respond. After another sip of wine, she glanced over her shoulder, back inside the cottage. Against the light from the fire, she could make out Grechko’s silhouette.
“He’s one of the highest-ranking defectors we’ve ever had. With what he knows, we’ll be able to set parts of Russian intelligence back decades, if not longer. But that won’t happen if I can’t keep him alive. And right now, I don’t know if I can do that in Norway. Not alone. Not by myself.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not alone,” said Harvath, swirling the wine in his glass and taking a drink.
Grechko was a massive get for the Norwegians and, by extension, for NATO and all its allied partners. He wasn’t going to let Sølvi fail.
In fact, he had already begun formulating possible next steps in his mind. That was who he was. When he saw a problem, he charged right after it and fixed it. Or he smashed it into so many little pieces that it wasn’t a problem anymore. But Sølvi’s approach was different.
She was more measured, more of a tactician. If she had to, she could apply brute force to a problem. Before that, however, she methodically ran through each and every scenario—sifting, weighing, and then rejecting whatever didn’t give her the highest possible chance for success. It was one of the biggest reasons he thought she would turn out to be a better spy than he was. She had figured out how to weaponize both her intelligence and her patience.
As they sat quietly together in the crisp evening air, the scent of wood smoke curled from the chimney and hovered over the deck. Harvath, ever the mariner, tilted his head back and tried to identify the first stars in the night sky. From somewhere off in the trees, a pair of tawny owls called back and forth to each other as they readied to hunt.
“I know what I want to do,” Sølvi suddenly said, breaking the silence between them. “I want to make a deal.”
“With whom?” he asked.
“Holidae Hayes.”
The response took him by surprise. Of all the potential scenarios he had been running through his mind, that was definitely not one of them.
He looked at her. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive,” she replied, pulling the blanket off and standing up. “But first, I need a favor. I want you to speak with Grechko.”
“Grechko? Why?”
“Because we’ll need his buy-in. And for that to happen, he’s going to have to trust you.”
CHAPTER 14
DGSI HEADQUARTERS
PARIS
“Kebab, falafel, and couscous,” said Brunelle as she set the plastic bag filled with to-go containers on her colleague’s desk.
It was amazing to her that a man so slim could eat so much food and never put on an ounce of weight.
Mohammed Motii, or MoMo for short, was a digital forensic specialist for the DGSI’s Computer Analysis Response Team. CART’s job was to crack, extract, and preserve any and all digital evidence during DGSI computer investigations.
MoMo had agreed to keep on working on the key fob Brunelle had given him, in exchange for her going out in the rain and picking up dinner from the Moroccan restaurant around the corner.
“You didn’t let them forget my fries, did you?” he asked.
“They’re in the box with the falafel. And here’s your Fanta,” she replied, pulling the bottle from her bag, which contained her own dinner of chicken tagine. “Any luck with that flash drive yet?”
