Tearing the sheet from the notebook, he handed it to him. “Forty-eight hours,” said Nyström. “That’s as much as I can give you. Then I take over.”
Across town, one of the two patrol officers who had met Harvath’s plane at Visby Airport used a side door to enter the hospital. Avoiding the intake desk at the emergency room, he made his way to a stairwell and headed down to the basement.
There, he walked past the morgue to the hospital security office. The door was unlocked, and opening it, he stepped inside.
Sitting in front of a bank of monitors, glued to his iPhone, was the sole security guard in the office.
Looking up and seeing his visitor, he immediately pocketed his phone and stood, almost at attention. “Officer Johansson,” he said. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Lucas,” the officer replied. “Quiet night?”
“So far,” the young man stated.
“I can see that. Are you being paid to monitor your Instagram account or the hospital’s closed-circuit cameras?”
Lucas hung his head. He had already failed the police entrance exam once. All he wanted to do was to become a cop. Now he had been caught shirking his professional responsibilities by an officer from the same department he wanted to join.
He was convinced he had blown any chance of being hired until Officer Johansson said, “Never mind. I need a favor.”
“Certainly. What is it?”
Pulling a portable drive from his uniform pocket, the tall man handed it to the young security guard and said, “I need all your footage from the last hour.”
“Why?” the guard asked, as he accepted the drive, found a cable, and attached it to his system. “Are you looking for someone?”
Obviously I’m looking for someone, thought Officer Johansson. Goodness, this kid was a moron. How he’d even been hired by the hospital was beyond him.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” Johansson said, ignoring his question.
“How is it out on the street tonight?” asked the guard as he tapped several keys on his keyboard and isolated the footage the policeman had requested.
“Can I trust you to keep this between us?” the officer replied, as the footage began to download.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“We’re hunting a jewel thief.”
“A jewel thief? In Visby?” the eager security guard asked, as the download neared completion. “Did you think he came here? To the hospital?”
“What do you think?”
The young man paused for a moment, thinking, and then replied, “Of course! That’s why you’re here.”
“You’re going to make an excellent police officer one day, Lucas. You have a real nose for it. How much longer on the download?”
“Done!” the guard exclaimed, unplugging the device and handing it back to Officer Johansson.
“When’s the next exam?” the cop asked.
“Two months.”
“Are you ready?”
The guard grimaced.
“Keep studying,” advised Johansson.
“I will sir.”
“Good.”
When the officer got to the door, he turned and addressed the young man one last time. “A patient’s car was broken into in the parking lot tonight. Her bracelet was stolen. If you see or hear anything about our jewel thief, let us know.”
And with that, Johansson left the security office and exited the hospital. He’d have to wait until his shift was over and he could establish a secure connection, but he had no doubt that his handler and Moscow were going to appreciate having video footage of the American.
CHAPTER 28
Oleg Tretyakov poured himself a glass of wine as he processed the recent spate of intelligence reports he had received. The first had been the most troubling. The cell on Gotland had been under surveillance. But as far as they knew, by only one person — an older man in his sixties.
Staffan Sparrman had noticed him multiple times — both in his white Volkswagen Passat, and on foot. When the man had been on foot, he was particularly conspicuous because of his distinctive Alpine hat.
The handler for the Gotland cell was one of Tretyakov’s most trusted lieutenants. The strategic importance of the Swedish island had made it imperative that he put his best man in charge. Ivan Kuznetsov was that man.
Kuznetsov was brilliant, brutal, and beyond loyal. Had Tretyakov wanted, he could have also added the word “butcher” to describe him, as Kuznetsov had grown up in a family of butchers and had begun expertly butchering hogs at a young age.
His knowledge of butchery, his brutality in dealing with Russia’s enemies, and his skill in using a knife had earned Kuznetsov the nickname “Kutznutzov.”
His peasant upbringing, though, had always been a millstone around his thick neck. It had been a source of derision for others while he was in the military. He had no formal education to speak of, having left school in the fifth grade to work full-time for his family’s business. But, as the Russian Army freed him from his village and allowed him to see more of the world, he had educated himself through books — anything at all he could get his hands on.
He liked books about politics, history, and art. Though he had never been there, he hoped one day to visit Florence and Rome — to walk in the footsteps of Machiavelli and Michelangelo. For now, though, he was confined to Gotland.
Kuznetsov was a deep-cover operative, part of the Russian illegals program. The term “illegal” referred to a Russian intelligence officer operating in a foreign country without official cover, such as an embassy employee or consular staff member.
He was the quintessential gray man — a person of average height and average looks who was easily forgettable — brown hair, brown eyes, nothing special. He didn’t call attention to himself.
Putting his butchering skills to work, he had found employment at an animal-processing plant on the island. He was knowledgeable, arrived early, stayed late, and never complained. It didn’t take him long to climb the ranks.
He enjoyed getting out and meeting the various farmers and ranchers, seeing their livestock, and even lending a helping hand during lambing season and other such times.
His papers identified him as a refugee from Kosovo named Dominik Gashi. And even though he wasn’t a Swede, he was appreciated and well-liked. As such, he spent a lot of social time with the farmers, ranchers, and other members of the community. That was how he had spotted and assessed Staffan Sparrman for potential recruitment.
With Tretyakov’s permission, he had then slowly begun to develop Sparrman, building a deeper, more personal relationship with him. He began getting together with him on a one-on-one basis, sounding him out on different topics — one of which was politics.
By the time the recruitment phase rolled around, he had Sparrman fully on the hook. The key to exploiting him wasn’t some weakness like gambling, drugs, or adultery, but rather it was ideological. He was a true believer in communism, but he had grown disillusioned with what he saw as a watered-down Communist Party in Sweden. Convinced that he couldn’t make a difference, he had given up and put all of his attention into the family farm.
His greatest hope was that one day he could find a woman with whom he was ideologically aligned. Perhaps, if things worked out, they could get married and raise a family. Sparrman was still young, and Kuznetsov had used this longing to his advantage.
The Russian had arranged to have an attractive GRU asset, who specialized in honey traps, vacation on the island. All he had to do was create a scenario where the two would cross paths, and he let the GRU asset handle the rest.