The Chief Inspector didn’t need to think about what would happen. He already knew. European history was all too clear on that subject. Sweden had dodged the horrors of Nazi attack and occupation, but only because it had declared itself neutral and had helped feed the Third Reich’s war machine by supplying it with much-needed iron ore, steel, and machine parts. It was an inconvenient truth if ever there was one.
“I still don’t understand what you want from me,” said Nyström.
“I want you to help me get Dominik Gashi — the cell leader.”
“I can’t do that.”
“What are you talking about?” Harvath replied. “You took an oath to protect this island.”
“I took an oath to uphold the law.”
Harvath shook his head.
“This needs to brought to the attention of the garrison commander,” Nyström continued. “This is a national security matter.”
“It’s bigger than that,” said Harvath. “It’s an international security matter. Do you know what happens if the military or the government gets involved? Dominik Gashi gets arrested. Then, he gets a lawyer. And at some point way in the future, he gets a trial. In the meantime, you saw what happened in Rome last night?”
“The bombing? Yes, it was terrible.”
“Well, that’s what Europe gets — attack after attack. Maybe even some right here in Sweden.
“I think you’re exaggerating,” said the Chief Inspector.
“I wish I was,” Harvath replied. “The fact is, the only link we have is Gashi.”
“How am I supposed to believe you? You lied to me. You told me you were here to meet Lars Lund to plan a pending military exercise.”
“Yeah, the most important exercise of all — the rescue of Gotland. That’s why I’m here. And no, I didn’t lie to you. As part of my assignment, I was supposed to figure out how to prevent a rescue from even being necessary. That’s why I was looking for Staffan Sparrman. If we could locate and identify the Russian cell, our job was to break it up.
“Then we were to take whatever we had learned and climb the ladder, go after the people on the next level. My job is to prevent a war. We’re trying to stop the Russians before they can launch any invasion. But make no mistake, they’re coming for Gotland.
“Now, maybe the Swedish military can repel their attack. I don’t know. Maybe Gotland can hold out until NATO comes to its rescue. But no matter what, people on your island, people you have sworn to protect, are going to die. I don’t want that to happen. I know you don’t want that to happen. And it doesn’t have to happen—if we can get to Dominik Gashi.”
The Chief Inspector put his fingers beneath his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He then walked away from the patrol car in order to think.
Harvath watched as the man, torn, paced slowly up and down in the wrecking yard.
There were only two potential outcomes. Either Nyström was going to help, or he wasn’t. Harvath hoped he chose Option A, because if the man chose Option B, it was going to get very bad, very quickly.
Leaning against the car, Harvath watched as his breath turned to steam and rose into the night air. His Sig Sauer was tucked in his jeans at the small of his back, and the Taser — with a brand-new cartridge — was in his left coat pocket.
Finally, the Chief Inspector came back over. “If I help you,” he said, “I want the information about every single person in that cell, especially the locals.”
“Done,” said Harvath.
“And,” Nyström added, “whatever it is you need, it can’t appear to have any official police sanction, and it absolutely cannot appear to have come from me.”
Harvath understood the man’s position, but his conditions were going to be a lot easier said than done — especially with what Harvath had in mind.
CHAPTER 46
The FörsPak processing plant was a half hour north of Visby and just inland from the coast. Its owner had been born and raised on the island. He had spent his entire life there, except for a two-year period while serving in the Swedish military.
What had intrigued Harvath the most about him, though, was that a quick scan of Facebook revealed him to be a member of the Gotland Runners Club. Not only did Nyström know Martin Ingesson, but they were also friends. It was, the Chief Inspector admitted again, “a small island.”
Trying to hew as close to Nyström’s conditions as possible, Harvath had suggested that the Chief Inspector characterize their middle-of-the-night visit to Ingesson as personal. “Friends don’t wake friends up in the middle of the night,” was the man’s response.
When they arrived at his home, the lights were on and Ingesson was up waiting for them. Hearing the car pull into the drive, he met them at the front door.
Martin Ingesson looked like a Viking. He was at least six-foot-four with blue eyes, blond hair, and a big blond beard. His chest and arms were twice the size of Harvath’s. The man could have passed for a competitor in the World’s Strongest Man contest. It wouldn’t have surprised Harvath in the least if he spent his lunch breaks dragging truck tires around a parking lot.
Ingesson invited them inside and led them back to the kitchen where he already had coffee ready. It was a modest home, paneled in blond wood, with ceramic masonry stoves in several of the rooms they passed. The hallway was lined with family photos.
Nyström made the introductions and they kept their voices low so as not to wake Ingesson’s wife and children.
“Anders tells me you’re with NATO?” the big man asked.
Harvath nodded. “And he tells me you were in the military. Which branch?”
“Army. K4.”
“Noorland’s Dragoons,” Harvath said, respectfully.
Ingesson was impressed. “You know it?”
He did. They were Sweden’s crack Ranger battalion — expert light infantry trained to carry out missions behind enemy lines.
“I started out with SEAL Team Two,” said Harvath. “We cross-trained with K4 in Lapland. Up until that point, I had thought Alaska was the coldest place on earth.”
The big man grinned. “SEALs are excellent warriors. But I think the cold water eventually breaks you. That’s why you retire to places like Florida and Texas.”
Harvath laughed. “In addition to nice weather, those states also have no income tax, are good places to raise a family, and don’t mind if you own guns.”
“Fair points,” Ingesson conceded, as he poured coffee and pushed a plate of pastries forward. “So, what are we all doing in my kitchen?”
Nyström had made the introduction. That was as far as he was prepared to go. “I’m going to take my coffee into the living room.”
Harvath waited until he was gone and then began speaking to his host. “I wanted to talk with you about one of your employees.”
“Which one?”
“Dominik Gashi.”
“He’s one of my best employees. What about him?”
“How well do you know him?” Harvath asked.
“He’s smart. He works hard. And he’s always on time. What else should I know about him?” asked Ingesson.
“What about his background?”
The big man thought for a moment. “From what I understand, he’s from a small village in Kosovo. His family, most of whom are dead, were in the butchery business. That’s about all I know.”
“Have you ever met any of them?”
“No, I have not.”
“Have you ever heard him speak Albanian or Serbian?” asked Harvath.
“No.”
“Have you ever seen him reading any books, magazines, or anything else in Albanian or Serbian?”
Ingesson shook his head.
“Have you ever heard him speaking Russian?” Harvath asked.