It was quite a steamy affair, and like most vacation flings, it eventually had to come to an end. But when the asset returned to Russia, she kept in touch with Sparrman via text messages, emails, and the occasional Skype video calls. With as light a touch as possible, she encouraged him not to give up on the communist cause and built him up to believe he could do great things. Kuznetsov then handled the rest.
Sparrman was his entry point into mainstream Gotland culture, and Kuznetsov built his network of assets and spies from there. Coming from a political family, Sparrman seemed to know where everyone on the island stood. Having grown up with all of them, he also knew what their weaknesses were and where they were the most vulnerable for recruitment.
The fact that Kuznetsov could safely use the family farm of the Governor of Gotland as his base of operations was an incredible coup. Of course, it helped that Kerstin Sparrman had an apartment in Visby and preferred to live there rather than out on the farm, but nevertheless Kuznetsov — and by extension his superior, Oleg Tretyakov — had been widely heralded back at GRU headquarters for their ingenuity. Operating an intelligence network right under the nose of the most important official on Gotland was the stuff of legend.
For his part, Kuznetsov didn’t see it as the stuff of legend. It just made good sense. The Sparrman farm was quite big. There were not only multiple places to have meetings undetected, but also countless places to hide caches of money, munitions, weapons, and assorted equipment.
But best of all, the farm allowed for the hiring of foreign laborers — big, strong men who under almost any other employment circumstances would have stood out on Gotland like sore thumbs. Tretyakov loved that he could create the Swedish cell and hide it in plain sight.
Sweden was undergoing a shortage in the labor market — particularly when it came to manual labor such as farm work. Visas to import workers from abroad were easy to come by.
A GRU intelligence officer working under official cover at the Russian Embassy in Stockholm had someone on his payroll in the Swedish Immigration Department. The immigration official was essentially a rubber stamp. All the GRU man from the embassy had to do was put the paperwork in front of him and he would sign off. No questions asked. Tretyakov had had no problem getting the men he needed into the country, over to Gotland, and to work on the Sparrman farm.
Kuznetsov not only had his own homegrown espionage network to gather intelligence, but he also had his own team of Russian Special Forces soldiers, known as Spetsnaz, lying in wait for when Moscow gave the order to launch the cell’s mission against the local garrison. It couldn’t have all come together in a more perfect fashion.
Which was why the man in the Alpine hat sniffing around the cell had caused such concern throughout the ranks.
Though he needed Tretyakov’s permission, Kuznetsov had already decided what needed to be done. The man had to be eliminated.
The word back from Tretyakov, though, was that it had to look like an accident. He had also wanted it done quickly, plus he wanted the man’s phone, laptop, and any other items of interest he might be in possession of. If they could uncover who he was and why he had been following Sparrman, that would be a valuable bonus.
Staging a vehicle accident was not as easy as it appeared in the movies. Even so, Kuznetsov and the Spetsnaz operatives had plenty of experience and were confident they could pull it off. They also had the perfect piece of bait — Sparrman. All they needed to do was pick the right location and spring their trap.
Catching the attention of the man in the Alpine hat had been easy. They had set up what appeared to be a clandestine rendezvous between Sparrman and another farmer in an easy-to-observe location.
The other farmer, who owed Sparrman some mundane paperwork, handed the documents over and Sparrman furtively tucked them into his jacket pocket. It didn’t have to be anything more than that.
Sparrman withdrew a map of the island and had a brief discussion with the farmer about spring grazing. Circling a location on the map, he thanked the farmer, shook hands, and returning to his vehicle, drove away. The man in the Alpine hat followed in his white VW Passat.
Kuznetsov and his team stayed in touch with Sparrman the entire time via encrypted radios. Gradually, they had him increase his speed. As he did, the white Passat trailing behind him matched his pace.
The Spetsnaz operatives had prescreened the route and had chosen the best location for the accident to happen. What they hadn’t counted on was another car coming by so soon afterward.
The accident itself had gone off perfectly — even better than they had planned.
Traveling with the headlights off, the man in the white VW was so focused on Sparrman in front of him that he never even noticed the Spetsnaz men come up on him from behind in a green Mercedes SUV.
By the time he realized they were there, they had moved into the opposite lane, as if to pass. Then, all of a sudden, they brought their vehicle slamming into his left rear quarter panel, causing him to swerve and lose control.
The white VW Passat shot off the road, rolled, and slammed into a tree with such force it sounded like an explosion.
They had been prepared to snap the man’s neck, but it turned out not to be necessary. By the time they got to his vehicle, he was already dead.
Quickly, they patted down all of his pockets and went through the rest of his car — taking his cell phone and his laptop bag, complete with a Toshiba notebook.
Before they could make a second, more thorough pass, they heard a car coming. They had no choice but to flee the scene.
As they left, they reached out to Johansson, another local member of the network, to let him know that everything had gone according to plan. They told him to expect a call to go out from his dispatcher shortly.
Knowing where and when the accident would take place, Johansson had arranged to be in the area, so that he could be the first law enforcement officer on the scene. In case the Spetsnaz operatives missed anything, which he highly doubted, he’d be able to take care of it.
When the passing motorists stopped to see what had happened, the call to the police followed less than a minute later. Immediately, the dispatcher was putting out the call for all available units to respond. Johansson radioed back his position and that he was en route. He had a good fifteen minutes at the scene before anyone else showed up. Not that he needed it. The Spetsnaz members had done a perfect job.
Back in Kaliningrad, Tretyakov had been pleased to get the good news. The man in the Alpine hat had been taken care of and the cell was still intact, ready to act. The man’s phone and the laptop would be couriered by one of Kuznetsov’s people to an agent in Stockholm. From there, it would be placed in the Russian Embassy’s diplomatic pouch and sent to Moscow where it could be fully examined.
In the meantime, Tretyakov had authorized another attack by the People’s Revolutionary Front. He had decided not only to oblige his superiors by moving up the timetable, but also to up the carnage.
If tonight’s operation was successful, it would be their most spectacular achievement yet.
CHAPTER 29
Figurati was one of the hottest restaurants in Rome. Located on the glamorous Piazza Navona, it was at the intersection of Italian politics and culture. Frequented by celebrities and politicians alike, Figurati was the place to be seen, especially on a Friday night.
The tables in the main dining room were booked months in advance. Only the most powerful and most famous could get a table on short notice, and sometimes not even then.