Other than that, they had come up empty. The guy was a ghost. That only further served to convince Tretyakov that he was dealing with an intelligence professional — probably one who was very highly skilled.
Flying a team into Gotland on a private jet was a big deal. NATO had money to burn, but not for run-of-the-mill personnel conducting site surveys for alleged training exercises. The local police might have bought a cover story like that, but not Tretyakov.
The fact that the people on the plane were there to meet a Swedish intelligence operative, the same man who had Staffan Sparrman under surveillance, concerned Tretyakov — and rightly so.
Even though the man’s death had looked like an accident, Tretyakov was now worried that they had been too rash. The Gotland cell was too valuable to lose — especially right now.
Kuznetsov, though, had told Tretyakov not to worry. According to Johansson, the local Chief Inspector hadn’t suspected anything.
The worst thing that they could do at this point was to change their routines or to start acting suspiciously. The beauty of the Gotland cell was that it wasn’t trying to hide. It was operating right in the open for everyone to see.
Tretyakov supposed he was right, but he didn’t like it. What bothered him was not knowing what his opponents knew. If they had anything of substance, they would have rolled the entire cell up by now. Putting it under surveillance seemed to suggest that they were still gathering information.
Tretyakov was willing to go along with Kuznetsov and let it ride, for the time being. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Moscow that they needed to shut the Gotland cell down. There was too much riding on them.
The second needle he had to deal with was the alleged Gryphon missile upgrade kits. He used the term “alleged” because like “Stephen Hall,” none of his NATO sources knew anything about the missiles, other than the fact that they were supposed to have been destroyed. By all accounts, there were no Gryphons in NATO’s inventory. But did that mean they didn’t exist?
Tretyakov didn’t trust the Americans, not one bit. Therefore, he was willing to entertain the idea that they secretly, and in violation of the treaty, had either left in place or removed, and later smuggled back in, land-based cruise missiles in Europe. His issue, though, was that the level of secrecy that would be required for something like this was almost outside NATO’s capability.
America and its allies had always been obsessed with following the rule of law and the terms of their treaties. To take such a gamble was so far outside their comfort zone that the missing upgrade kits had started to feel like disinformation to him. Yet Russia’s GRU and FSB had both received solid, separately sourced reporting on it.
That’s what really had made it difficult. If the corroborative reporting hadn’t been there, it would have been much easier to brush the entire idea aside. But they couldn’t ignore what had come in — including the report from the United Nations in New York City. The behavior of the American and Baltic Ambassadors had all but verified the theft of the missile kits.
Based on his sources, the search had moved from Poland into Belarus — Minsk to be exact. The presence, or lack thereof, of the Gryphon missiles in the Baltics was a top-level concern for Moscow. They wanted proof, either way, and they wanted it ASAP.
Tretyakov had activated a team in Minsk to observe the progress there, and had also been shaking down every contact he had in Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. The road mobile launchers used for the missiles were not vehicles that were easy to hide, nor were rumors of their existence. Somebody, somewhere, had to know something.
In the meantime, Moscow continued to tighten the screws on him. They not only wanted answers, but they were also anxious to finish prepping the battlefield so that they could launch their invasion.
They wanted him to capitalize on the success of Rome. More than that, they wanted him to improve upon it. They were focused on civilian casualties. Civilian deaths captured the media’s attention. Once you had the media’s attention, the public’s followed, like a dog on a leash.
The question was how he would follow up on the Rome bombing. That attack had been perfect. It had also been unique, on many levels. Replicating it wouldn’t be easy.
But if easy was what had been needed, there were many untold numbers Moscow could have called. He occupied the position he did because he delivered what others couldn’t. He delivered the impossible.
And, as he cleared his mind and decided which attack would come next, he realized there was no better word for it than impossible.
CHAPTER 43
Harvath took a good, hard look at Staffan Sparrman. Haney and Staelin had him tied to a chair in an equipment shed on the edge of the rental property. It smelled like gasoline and rotten wood. They had stripped him down to his soiled white underwear. His hood was still on.
The cold had gotten to him. He had only been in the shed for a while, but he was shivering.
There was a tarp in the corner. Harvath gathered it up and draped it over his shoulders.
“Staffan, listen to my voice,” he said. “The worst of this can already be behind you. It is your decision. If you cooperate with me, you will be home, in your own bed, before the night is over. Do you understand me?”
Harvath watched as the man slowly nodded.
“That’s good. Now, before we get started, I want you to know the ground rules. Only a few kilometers from here, we also have your mother, the Governor, in custody.”
It was a lie, of course, but Sparrman didn’t know that. All he knew was that he had been taken captive. Why wouldn’t the same people have been able to do the same to his mother? This was Gotland. She didn’t have police protection. There was no need.
Harvath watched as Sparrman’s body tensed. As Harvath had suspected, despite the man’s difficult relationship with his mother, he still cared for her.
“If you answer my questions truthfully,” he continued, “no harm will come to her. Do you understand? If so, nod.”
Again, the man slowly nodded.
“Good. Here’s the flip side. If you lie to me, or if I suspect you are lying to me, whatever pain I make you feel, your mother is also going to feel. Is that clear? If so, nod.”
Even more slowly this time, the man nodded.
“Good,” said Harvath. “Let’s give this a try. We’ll start with something easy. You have Russian Special Forces soldiers working on your farm.”
Instantly, the man shook his head.
Harvath drove the open metal contacts of Chase’s Taser into Sparrman’s ribs and depressed the trigger.
Sparrman’s body went rigid as he cried out and wet himself again, the urine running down his left leg and onto the floor.
Harvath pulled the Taser back and gave the man a chance to regain his composure.
“Did you see what happened in Rome, Staffan?”
The man’s head lolled from side to side. There was a fog detainees could slip into. It was the brain disconnecting from the trauma being inflicted on the body. In essence, it was a psychological safe space. Harvath was having none of it.
Drawing his open hand back, he brought it slicing down and slapped Sparrman hard, on the side of his head.
With the duct tape still over his mouth, there was only so much noise he could make.
Raising the radio to his mouth, Harvath said, “Taser the Governor.”
Immediately, Sparrman attempted to cry out and shook his head from side to side.