Page 65 of Spymaster

Sparrman left the bar, walked over to their table, and asked the two ladies where they were from.

Harvath had already worked out the cover story with both of them. They gave the Swede the short version, after which he asked if he could sit down at their table and buy them both a drink. Jasinski said yes, even though it was obvious that he was speaking to Sloane.

Sparrman took a seat and called the waitress over. He ordered another beer for himself and asked the ladies what they wanted. They ordered Amstel Lights. There was no telling how long they would be drinking. The lower the alcohol content of what they were consuming, the better.

Sloane elaborated on their cover story, going into more detail about where they were from, and what they were doing in Sweden.

When she asked Sparrman what he did for a living, he told her he owned one of the biggest ranches on the island. She said she didn’t believe him and asked to see his hands. When he showed her, she lightly traced the lines and calluses with one of her fingers. If the man wasn’t hot already, his temperature was definitely beginning to climb. And, she had learned something about him, something he hadn’t said.

They finished their beers and Sparrman bought another round. They continued to laugh and make small talk.

When the third round came, Jasinski excused herself to use the ladies’ room. While there, she texted Harvath a SITREP. Everything was going well, but Sparrman seemed content to just sit with a pretty woman, drink beer, and glance up at the TV whenever he heard his colleagues at the bar cheer or let out a collective groan.

Harvath texted back that Jasinski needed to get Sloane to dial up the heat. Jasinski refused, telling him that Sloane was doing a great job and that he would just need to be patient.

After leaving the ladies’ room, she stopped by the bar to break a large bill so she could have money for the jukebox. One of the Russians was ogling her and so she asked him, in English, if there were any songs he wanted to hear.

The question seemed to have taken him by surprise. She could almost hear the gears grinding away in his head. The man’s response finally came in a thick, unquestionably Russian accent. “Bruce Springsteen,” he said.

“The Boss,” Jasinski replied, with a smile.

“Yes. The Boss.”

“I’ll see if they have him,” she said, as she accepted her change from the barman. Noticing the ink on the man’s arm, she added, “Nice tattoo,” before leaving the bar and walking over to the jukebox.

Springsteen, she thought to herself as she walked. Interesting choice, especially for a Russian, but that was the power of American culture.

There were only a handful of Springsteen songs she actually enjoyed, and she was glad to see they had at least one of them. Inserting a bill into the machine, she made her selections.

As she walked back to her table, the horns from “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out” began playing. It was obvious by the look on the Russian’s face that he’d never heard it before. She flashed him the thumbs-up. Confused, he flashed a thumbs-up back.

Laughing, Jasinski sat back down.

“What’s so funny?” Sparrman asked.

“That guy at the bar,” she replied, nodding toward the Russian.

“What about him?”

“I asked what kind of music I should play. He saidSpringsteen. I don’t think he knows this one. Maybe I should have played “Born in the USA.”

“His name is Nikolai. You should go back to talk to him,” Sparrman suggested, obviously trying to get rid of her.

Jasinski looked over at the Russian. “I don’t know. He’s not much of a conversationalist and is even a little scary, to be honest. He’s got a tattoo, of a scorpion, on the inside of his arm.”

“No. He’s very kind. He’s in charge of the animals on the farm.”

“You have animals? What kind?”

“Go ask Nikolai.”

“Oh, I get it,” Jasinski replied. “You two want to be alone. Not a problem. I’ll be at the bar with Nikolai, I guess.”

“Thank you,” said Sparrman, who was enthralled with Sloane and not even looking at Jasinski. “Have him buy you a beer. Tell him I said so.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, standing up and stepping away from the table. She hoped that Sloane had understood her message. Sparrman’s farmhands were definitely Spetsnaz. The scorpion was a popular tattoo in a lot of their units.

Just as Monika had noticed the tattoo, Sloane had noticed that Sparrman had stains on his fingertips. As his leg bounced up and down under the table, she could tell he was jonesing.

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