Page 19 of Spymaster

“That’s my secret weapon,” said Harvath. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

The moment the two dogs saw Harvath, they began wagging their tails. They never left the little man’s side, though, until he whispered some sort of a command and they raced forward.

“Five minutes or five months,” stated Harvath, scratching them behind the ears. “It’s always the same welcome.”

“I’m beginning to believe they like you more than me,” said the little man, as his small boots crunched across the gravel motor court.

He couldn’t have been more than three feet tall. His salt-and-pepper hair was long enough to be swept back behind his ears. He had a neatly trimmed beard and wore jeans and an Irish fisherman’s sweater.

“Nicholas,” he offered, sticking his hand up so she could shake it.

“Pleased to meet you,” replied Jasinski, bending down. “I’m Monika.”

“Are you hungry, Monika?”

“I am.”

“Good, because lunch is ready. Let’s go inside.”

When Harvath had called her for lunch, this wasn’t what she had expected. They had each left Norway the same way they had arrived—separately. NATO had arranged for her to hop a ride on a military transport. Harvath had remained behind for a day with Carl Pedersen. He wanted to see what, if anything, the Norwegian forensics team pulled from the ashes of the cabin. It turned out to be a bust.

As Harvath was a special consultant to SHAPE, Jasinski had assumed he and anyone working with him would have been issued offices on the Mons campus. Stepping into the guesthouse, she realizedthesewere his offices.

The building had low ceilings with exposed timber beams. Taped to the plaster walls were countless maps, photographs, and computer-printed documents. There was a large whiteboard with notes in multiple colors of dry-erase marker. Makeshift desks held rugged laptops or keyboards and large monitors. In the corner stood a rack of hard drives. Multiple muted, flat-panel television sets were tuned to different twenty-four-hour news channels.

This wasn’t a domicile. It was a control center. And at that moment, she knew her hunch was correct about who the little man was.

The Troll was infamous in intelligence circles. He was a purveyor of highly sensitive, often classified information. He bought it, sold it, traded it, and stole it. He had an amazing list of clients around the world and an equally amazing list of enemies. The intel he trafficked in had been used to disrupt covert operations, blackmail politicians, and bring down governments.

“You’re the—” she began.

“Not anymore,” he replied, cutting her off as he climbed onto a stepstool to reach the stove in the open kitchen—the smells from which were delicious. “Now, I’m just Nicholas.”

She noticed he spoke English with a slight accent. “You’re working with the Americans?”

“Iaman American,” he beamed. “Recently minted.”

“I give up,” she said. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Don’t worry,” said Nicholas as he lifted the lids off several pots and pans and began plating their lunch. “It will eventually make sense.”

“Or it won’t,” said Harvath as he examined a new photograph that had been added to the wall.

Jasinski lowered her voice. “Is he always like that?”

“Like what?”

“Such an asshole.”

The little man smiled. “He’s just testing you.”

“For what?”

“He doesn’t like people who blindly follow orders. He wants you to think for yourself, to think outside the box. Don’t worry, he’s a Teddy bear.”

“I heard that,” Harvath replied from the living room.

The little man smiled at her and, nodding at the plates, asked for her help in carrying everything out to the table.

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