Page 73 of Spymaster

“Why would you report something like that to Dominik?”

Sparrman didn’t answer.

Harvath held up the Taser. “Listen to me, Staffan. You’re sitting in gas, literally up to your balls. In addition to a shitload of electricity, this Taser produces a real beefy spark—nineteen sparks per second, to be exact. What do you think might happen if I have to Tase you again?”

The Swede looked at the device and then down at his underwear, his legs, and finally his feet, submerged in the bucket of gasoline.

“I report to Dominik as well,” he admitted. “We all do. He is in charge of everything.”

“Defineeverything.”

“He controls the Russians. They only work on my farm as a cover. I assume they are soldiers of some sort. Then there are the rest of us. Local Swedes, sympathetic to the cause.”

“What cause?” asked Harvath.

“The Russian cause.”

“Communism?”

Sparrman didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Harvath knew that was exactly what he meant.

“How many Russians are on your farm?”

“Eight,” said the Swede.

“Any non-Russians?”

The man shook his head.

“How many locals, sympathetic to your cause or otherwise, are part of your cell?”

“Six,” replied Sparrman.

“I’m going to want their names, occupations, and where they live.”

“Promise me you will let my mother go. I will give you whatever information you want.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, Staffan,” Harvath reminded him. “Every single thing that happens to you is completely within your control. If you cooperate, everything will be fine. If you don’t, then you’ll see what happens. That’s the last time I’m telling you.”

Tucking his Taser in his back pocket, he pulled out his phone, activated the voice memo feature, and, holding it up, said, “Now, let’s have those names.”

Sparrman rattled them off. “Marcus Larsson. He works for one of the Gotland radio stations and lives in Visby. Henrik Erickson is an auto mechanic. He lives and works in Hemse. Ove Ekström lives in Tofta and is unemployed. Ronnie Linderoth is a handyman and lives in Klintehamn. Hasse Lustig works on the ferry and lives outside Visby. And then there’s Magnus Johansson—”

“Police officer,” a voice interrupted from the doorway of the shed. “I also live just outside Visby.”

Harvath spun. Standing there, with his service weapon drawn, was Johansson—the same cop Harvath had seen driving past in Old Town earlier that night.

“Drop the phone,” the officer ordered. “Hands in the air. Keep them where I can see them.”

Harvath, who had been in the shed alone with Sparrman, did as he was instructed. “How did you know we were here?”

“The car rental agency gave me descriptions of your vehicles,” he replied. “Someone thought they had been seen near the Sparrman farm, but we couldn’t confirm that. Tonight, though, I saw your Camry parked in Visby.

“I placed one of these inside the wheel well,” he said, holding up a small, inexpensive GPS device. “When Staffan disappeared from O’Learys, Nikolai called Dominik and Dominik called me. This was the first place I came. When I heard him cry out for help, I knew I had done the right thing.”

And he probably alerted everyone else in the cell that he was coming, thought Harvath.At least the Spetsnaz team, with their vehicles disabled, won’t be able to back him up anytime soon.

That didn’t change the fact, though, that Johansson had the gun and thereby, the upper hand. Harvath had to think of something, quick.

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