Page 77 of Spymaster

“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—ifwe 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,especiallythe 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.”

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