Near Dark: A Thriller (18 page)

Not that Harvath had ever admitted to being a SEAL. That wasn’t something you were supposed to do in casual relationships.
Had he hinted at it, especially when he was trying to bed a gorgeous Scandinavian flight attendant? Though he would have denied it in a court of law, it “may” have happened. As the old saying in the Special Operations community went—if you weren’t cheating, you weren’t really trying. Tier One guys were not selected because they were experts at following rules. They were selected because
they did whatever it took to get the job done.

“Property line,” Harvath said as he neared the edge of the woods. “Fifty meters out.”

“Good copy,” Nicholas replied. “Norseman, fifty meters out.”

Harvath checked the drone feed once more. Everything looked good. There was no one near the house—no neighbors trimming rosebushes or walking dogs, no landscapers mowing lawns, no children kicking soccer
balls or riding bikes. He was good to go.

He took a moment, unslung his pack, and waited. Crouching down behind the last copse of trees, he waited.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust what the drone was showing, he simply trusted his instincts and his own eyes more.

Pulling his earbud out, he closed his eyes and listened. The easiest thing to hear was the wind blowing through the trees around him.
Beyond that, he could make out the tumble of water from the fountain in Landsbergis’s expansive backyard. From somewhere else came the high-pitched notes of a metal wind chime.

They all came together to form the soundtrack of an affluent suburb. The only threat here appeared to be Harvath. And that was exactly how he preferred it.

“Breaking property line,” he stated, having reinserted his earbud.
“Norseman inbound.”

H
arvath quickly made his way across the manicured lawn and came to a stop with his back against the side of the house.

Studying the door, he noticed a metal strip, lined with buttons, about three inches high and an inch wide embedded in the frame.

“In addition to standard locks, I also see a keypad here. Do we have an entry code?” he asked.

“Negative. There doesn’t appear to be
one in the file.”

That wasn’t unusual. The alarm company’s job was to monitor for break-ins and dispatch a response if one took place. They didn’t need a set of keys or an entry code to carry out that job.

“Roger that,” said Harvath, as he fished the lockpick gun out of his pack. “What about the alarm panel location and passcode?”

“From where you are making entry, go left into the dining room
and back through the kitchen. There’s a panel in the hallway behind the refrigerator.”

“Good copy. Panel in the hallway behind the refrigerator.”

“Passcode one, one, seven, six, two, zero. Repeat one, one, seven, six, two, zero.”

“Roger that. Confirming passcode one, one, seven, six, two, zero.”

“Affirmative,” said Nicholas.

“Zero comms,” Harvath directed, requesting radio silence. “Unless
and until you see movement.”

“Roger that. Zero comms.”

Sliding over to the door, Harvath gave it a quick once-over before inserting the lockpick gun and opening it.

The moment he entered the house, the alarm started beeping.

Per Nicholas’s instructions, he went left into the dining room, traversed the kitchen, and emerged into the hallway. There on the wall, in a mudroom-style area, was the
alarm panel.

Harvath punched in the code:
one, one, seven, six, two, zero.
The beeping stopped and the alarm panel fell silent. He was in.

There were no children’s or women’s items in the mudroom. The only clothing he saw appeared to belong to Landsbergis, including the Barbour jacket he’d been wearing the one and only time he and Harvath had met.

Returning to the kitchen, Harvath quickly searched
for any signs someone might have recently been in the house. The espresso machine, oven, and stovetop were all cold. There was nothing unusual in the garbage or the microwave either. All good signs.

Making his way back to the hallway, he wanted to check the rest of the rooms before resetting the alarm and picking a place to await the intelligence officer.

But no sooner had he turned the corner
and stepped into the hall than he discovered a pistol pointed at his face.

He recognized the weapon immediately. With its two-piece suppressor, it wasn’t one you saw every day—at least not outside Russia. The would-be shooter, though, was a complete stranger to him.

“Drop the backpack,” the figure said. “
Slowly
.”

Harvath did as the woman instructed. Had Landsbergis sent her to intercept him?
She spoke English with a slight accent, but it wasn’t Lithuanian.

“Hands up.”

Again, he did as she ordered.

“If you lower your hands, even a millimeter, I’ll shoot you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” said Harvath, beginning to zero in on the accent. She was tall, blond, and even with her hair pulled back and barely any makeup on,
she was attractive. He didn’t see a ring. “Who are you?” he asked,
buying time. “The girlfriend?”

“You ask too many questions for a man on the wrong end of a gun. Turn around so I can see your back.”

He obeyed.

“Now,” she instructed, “touch your hands to your shoulders, pinch the fabric of your shirt, and lift it up so I can see your waistband.”

As Harvath did, he revealed the pistol tucked at the small of his back. She then had him turn all the way around,
which exposed a smaller pistol—a Sig Sauer P365—he was carrying as a backup, the top of the Taser he had slipped into one of his pockets, as well as a folding knife. After checking the tops of his boots, she had him slowly discard everything and put his hands back up in the air.

“Based on all of that,” she continued, alluding to the pile of gear, “it’s obvious you didn’t come to cut the grass.
So who are you and what are you doing here?”

Good-looking
and
a smartass. If she hadn’t been pointing a gun at him, he might have liked her. “I came to have a chat with Landsbergis.”

“About what?”

“It’s private.”

The woman smiled—two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. Adjusting her aim, she said, “I think we’re beyond keeping secrets at this point.”

“Can I put my hands down?”

“No. Answer
my question. What did you come to
chat
about?”

Finally, Harvath had pegged the accent and decided to give the truth. “I came to find out whether or not he killed a friend of mine.”

Sølvi Kolstad looked at him. “And who was this friend?”

“I don’t think it’s an accident that we’re both here at the same time. I actually think you know who I’m talking about.”

“Say his name.”

Harvath met her gaze
as he stated, “Carl Pedersen.”

A flash of grief rippled across the woman’s face. Whether she couldn’t hide it, or didn’t bother to, Harvath wasn’t able to ascertain. All he knew was that as quickly as the emotion had appeared, it was gone.

“I know who you are,” he said. “At least I think I do.”

“Really?” she responded. “Who am I?”

“Turn around and I’ll tell you.”

Considering the power dynamics
of the situation, it was a ridiculous request and Sølvi couldn’t help but chuckle. “Would you be willing to hold my gun while I do?”

She was growing on him. “You’ll have to hold it yourself,” he said, indicating the position he was being made to stand in. “My arms are starting to get tired.”

“Why do you want me to turn around?”

“Because, if I’m right, you have some sort of a tattoo down your
back. A quote from Rousseau, if my memory serves.”

“It’s Sartre,” she said, correcting him.

Harvath smiled. He had been testing her. “It could have been from Ibsen and Carl still would have hated the idea of anyone working for him, much less his protégé, being inked.”

During her recovery, she had started jogging again. On one particularly nice day, Carl had shown up to check on her just as
she was returning. She had been wearing a sports bra and he had not only noticed the tattoo, but he had also given her hell for it.

He hated tattoos because they were a visible identifier, and identifiers were deadly for spooks.

Making matters worse, unlike a man with a limp or a man with a facial scar, hers—a woman with the tattoo along her spine—was a self-imposed vulnerability.

He had chalked
it up to her descent into drug-induced darkness, but there was one other thing about it that pissed him off. Of all the quotes she could have chosen, she had chosen Sartre. That probably bothered him the most. He didn’t see Sartre as a brilliant philosopher or existentialist, Carl viewed him—as he viewed everything—through politics. Sartre had been a Marxist and that had made him Pedersen’s
enemy.

On every complaint about the tattoo, she had humbly acknowledged his points. The Marxism stuff was just stupid and she had told him as much. Politics had nothing at all to do with why she had chosen it and she informed him that they were done discussing it.
Permanently
.

Carl apparently, though, hadn’t seen it that way.

“I’m surprised he told you,” she said.

“I’m surprised I still have
my hands up,” replied Harvath. “Can I put them down, please?”

Sølvi nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, lowering his arms. “And for the record, Carl never told me about your tattoo. He mentioned it to my boss, who said something to me.”

“Your
boss
being Reed Carlton.”

“Yes,” replied Harvath, extending his hand. “Scot Harvath.”

Sølvi lowered her pistol, stepped forward, and they shook hands. “Sølvi
Kolstad.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Carl was a very good man.”

“And I’m sorry for yours,” she offered. “I heard you also lost your wife and a colleague in addition to Reed.”

Harvath nodded and changed the subject. “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

“How’d you get around the alarm system?”

“I have my ways,” she replied.

He didn’t doubt it. “I think we should get some things straight
before Landsbergis gets home.”

“Agreed.”

“First, I’d like to do a sweep for weapons.”

“Already done,” said Sølvi. “There was a nine-millimeter Beretta in a holster mounted under the entry hall table. Behind one of the pillows on the couch in the living room was a Glock 17. I found a CZ-75 in the kitchen and a Browning Hi-Power in the nightstand upstairs.”

He was impressed. “What did you do
with them?”

“I unloaded all of them, reset the triggers and put them back where I found them.”

“I guess I can scratch that off my list then.”

Sølvi smiled. “He carries a Glock 19. So be aware that he’ll be walking in already armed.”

Harvath had figured as much. What he couldn’t figure out was how
she knew, down to the precise make and model. “How do you know what kind of weapon he’ll have
on him?”

“In some cases, Carl left behind very detailed notes. In others, such as what you and Reed were doing with him here in Lithuania, there are no notes at all.”

“Which is why I want us to talk before he arrives. I don’t know how much time we’re going to have.”

The Norwegian slid the phone out of her pocket, activated its screen, and held it out so Harvath could see it.

It looked like
a version of Google Maps in dark mode. On it, was a flashing dot slowly making its way north out of Vilnius.

“As long as he doesn’t stop on the way home from the office,” she informed him, “we have approximately twenty-seven minutes.”

“You have a tracker on his car?”

“Carl
may
have put some software on his phone.”

Typical spymaster
, thought Harvath, shaking his head. “So Carl didn’t trust
him.”

“What was it your President Reagan said?” she asked. “Trust, but verify?”

“But Reagan was talking about the Russians.”

“And this is Lithuania, which means—like it or not—that we’re
also
talking about the Russians.”

It begged an important question. “With Landsbergis’s help, we mounted a pretty big operation against the Russians. Why would he have agreed to help us, to have helped Carl,
if he was a Russian asset?”

“I’m not saying he was. In fact, if Carl involved him in something that sensitive, I’d say he did it with full confidence that he was in the correct camp. You need to understand that Carl did a lot of things that pushed the envelope, including—when he could—putting software on his assets’ phones. Just because Landsbergis was on our side one day doesn’t mean he might
not be on Russia’s the next. Part of what made Carl
Carl
was that he was always thinking ahead.”

She could have been describing Harvath’s very own mentor. Reed Carlton had a gift for peering over the horizon, recognizing an
approaching problem, and coming up with solutions before anyone else knew what was going on.

With Carl’s protégé here, Harvath’s operation just got more complicated. He needed
some more information from her. But, his jet lag kicking back in, he first wanted some more caffeine. He suggested they step into the kitchen.

I
n the cupboard next to the fridge, Harvath had discovered an exceptional bottle of whiskey. He had found it while looking for where Landsbergis kept his coffee. If nothing else, the man had good taste. Setting it on the counter, he kept searching until he uncovered the coffee.

“Tough day?” Sølvi asked, nodding at the bottle.

“Tough year,” Harvath replied, as he took down two cups.

“Do you normally drink on the job?”

“Nothing I do feels normal anymore.”

“Well, just so we’re clear, I’d prefer not to get shot. You can have a drink or your gun. It’s up to you.”

She was right, of course. As much as he wanted to numb himself, and as much as he figured he could still function with a small amount of booze in his system, there was too much risk. He couldn’t afford deadening his
senses and possibly making a serious mistake—one that might get either, or both, of them killed.

He decided against an Irish coffee, returned the bottle to the cupboard, and got to work preparing two espressos.

“We still doing okay on time?” he asked.

Sølvi checked her phone. “Yes.”

Removing his phone, he activated the screen and propped it up on the counter where they could both see it. After
their exchange in the hallway, he had given Nicholas the “safe word,” as they jokingly referred to it, and had let him know everything was okay before disconnecting the call.

“Where’s this feed coming from?” she asked.

“I brought a small drone with me,” he replied as he went back to making their coffees. “This way, we’ll be able to make sure he’s alone.”

“Why? Are you expecting him
not
to be
alone?”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

When the espressos were ready, he brought them over, they each pulled out a stool, and sat down.

“Who wants you bad enough to have tortured and killed Carl?” she asked, getting right to the point.

He couldn’t blame her. It was the same question he had been puzzling over. “It’s the Russians,” he answered. “I’m just not sure
which
Russians. That’s what I
am here to find out.”

“By talking to Landsbergis.”

Harvath nodded. “I think he’s the one who gave Carl to them.”

“Why do you think that?”

“We have good contacts in a lot of places. Unfortunately, not the Baltics. When I told Carl about the op we wanted to run in Kaliningrad, he told me he had the perfect person to help us on the Lithuanian side.”

“Filip Landsbergis.”

“Correct,” said Harvath.
“It turns out that Landsbergis has an asset, a Lithuanian truck driver who smuggles things into and out of Kaliningrad. They were family friends. Allegedly, no one at the VSD knew about him—only Landsbergis. Carl set up the introduction and Landsbergis arranged for his truck driver to secretly move me and my team around Kaliningrad.”

“So what led you to believe that Landsbergis gave Carl to the
Russians?”

“Only a handful of people knew of my relationship with Carl. Even fewer knew about our operation. I tried to think like the Russians. How would they piece together what had happened? In doing that, I looked at anyone who could have been a link in the chain connecting me to Carl. That’s when we got a hit.

“We learned that the truck driver had sought medical attention recently. His
story kept changing, though, and his injuries suggested that maybe it hadn’t been an accident. I decided to find out for myself.

“He lives on the outskirts of Vilnius. When I landed, I went straight to see him. It took some prodding, but he admitted that a couple of weeks ago a team of Russians had shown up on his doorstep.”

“What did they want?” she asked.

“The security services in Kaliningrad
had assembled enough evidence to suspect he was involved in our operation. They wanted to know what his role was and who he had been working for.”

She looked at him. “And he gave it up? All of it? Including Landsbergis?”

“They didn’t offer him a choice. They beat him pretty badly. They even threatened to go after his wife and grandchildren. He’s a tough, proud man. But nobody holds out indefinitely.”

“I can’t believe the Russians let him live. Where is he now? You didn’t let him go did you?”

“Of course, I let him go,” he replied. “The guy has been through enough. He told me what I needed to know. I didn’t have any reason to hold him.”

“
That’s
why you have a drone overhead. The minute you left the truck driver’s house, you know he was on the phone to Landsbergis. That’s why you’re concerned
he might not be coming home alone.”

“He claims he didn’t tell Landsbergis about the visit from the Russians.”

“And you believe him?” she asked.

“He’ll show up alone if he’s not guilty. If he shows up with a protective detail or a SWAT team, we’ll have our answer. Either way, I want to look him in the eyes when I ask him about Carl. Now, it’s your turn. What are you doing here?”

“We’ve already
established that,” she stated. “I’m here for the same reason as you—to confront Landsbergis.”

“But based on what? You said Carl didn’t leave any notes, that you didn’t know what we had been working on.”

“I received a tip.”

“A tip?” asked Harvath. “From whom?”

“The CIA’s station chief in Oslo.”

“Holidae Hayes.”

“Yes,” she replied. “You don’t sound surprised.”

He gestured at her phone. “How
much time do we have?”

“Fifteen minutes. Give or take.”

“What did Hayes say?”

“That you, Carl, and Reed had all been working on something linked to the Russian-sponsored attacks on NATO diplomats. It started with you coming to Norway to take down a cell and ended up with an operation launched from here in Lithuania.”

“Did she tell you what that operation was?” Harvath asked.

“No, but as it
had to do with the Russians, and as Lithuania borders Kaliningrad, it wasn’t hard to imagine where the operation took place.”

“Was this before or after Hayes gave her briefing to the NIS about me?”

“You know about that?”

Harvath nodded. “The CIA Director signed off on it. He briefed me before I left.”

“That’s why you weren’t surprised when I mentioned her name.”

“Correct.”

“In exchange for
the information she gave me, she made me promise that anything I developed, I would share it with her first—before I reported back to NIS. Was all of it just a ruse?”

“No, the Director gave her a wide scope. He wanted her to cooperate with your service, but he also wanted her to push the envelope,
fast
.”

“Because whoever killed Carl was coming for you next.”

“Someone
did
come for me.”

This
was the first time Sølvi had heard any of this. “When?”

“Three nights ago. A lone, unidentified assassin.”

“Why didn’t you share any of this with us?”

“We did. The CIA submitted prints, a retinal scan, and photos for facial recognition.”

“That was Langley’s high-priority John Doe?” she asked, remembering the submission. “All they said was that he
might
have a connection to Carl’s murder and
asked us to run him. There was nothing in the request about the subject being an assassin. Pretty important detail. Why leave it out?”

“Because if there
wasn’t
a connection, we didn’t want you to have already convinced yourselves that he was the guy you were looking for.”

“Hold on,” she stated. “Within hours of us notifying your government about how Carl’s assassin was compiling information
about you, an assassin shows up to kill you—and you don’t think there’s a connection?”

“We think there’s a connection. We just don’t know how direct it is.”

“For someone who’s supposed to be so good at this, you make no sense.”

Harvath decided to let the other shoe drop. “We have reason to believe there’s a contract out on me, one hundred million dollars, let to a pool of professional killers.
Whoever gets me first, gets the money.”

Sølvi didn’t know where to begin. “
One hundred million
? What the hell did you do to the Russians?”

“It’s a long story. Right now, I think we need to focus on how we’re going to handle Landsbergis.”

“You’re right,” she relented, checking her phone and noticing how close the VSD man was getting. “But after, we’re going to finish this conversation.”

She
reminded him a lot of Carl—she was smart, intense, and totally direct when she needed to be. Yet, there was an underlying sense of humor, a willingness to smile or make a joke in a tough situation. In short, he liked that. More to the point, he liked her. And that scared the hell out of him.