Page 27 of Spymaster

When she arrived at the address he had given her, she was shown through the lobby of a fixed-base operator and escorted outside. There, standing on the tarmac beside a sleek white business jet with gray pinstriping, was Harvath. He had his back to her and was sipping from a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee as he admired the aircraft.

“Nice ride,” she shouted, loud enough to be heard over a commercial aircraft taking off nearby. “Gulfstream G650?”

Harvath was impressed. “G650-ER,” he clarified, turning to greet her. “Extended-range package. Seven thousand five hundred nautical miles. Sleeps ten, can travel at Mach .90, has a kick-ass espresso maker and comes with cup holders and free Wi-Fi.”

“How’d you swing this?”

“Like I said—if it flies, floats, or fights—I’m your guy.”

“Apparently,” Jasinski agreed, as the copilot approached, politely took her bag, and added it to a stack of much bigger luggage near the tail. Much of it was hard-sided, plastic Storm cases. She could only imagine what was inside. She doubted they were full of toothpaste, razorblades, and clean underwear.

Looking back at Harvath, she asked, “How long are we planning on being away?”

“Those belong to the rest of the team.”

“Team?”

“They’re already on board. I’ll introduce you.”

Harvath led the way up the airstairs and into the cabin of the G650-ER. The first thing she noticed was how luxurious it was. The white leather seats were trimmed with gray piping and had individual controls for heating and cooling. The tables were crafted from highly polished Makassar ebony veneers. Plush gray carpeting with a swirling black design ran end to end. The fixtures were polished nickel. It even had the new-plane smell.

Scattered throughout the cabin, in various stages of shoes off, feet up relaxation, were four men and one woman who made up the “team.”

Leaning in close to her, Harvath confided, “They still refuse to wear nametags so I’m probably going to get a few of these wrong.” Straightening up, he pointed as he worked his way down the aisle and said, “You’ve already met Gage, Morrison, and Nicholas, who are holding down the fort back at HQ, so let me introduce the rest of the team. Everyone, this is Monika Jasinski. Monika, this is, Gimpy, Grumpy, Dopey, Drippy, and Sparkle.”

Each of the passengers held up a middle finger in response. Some of them held up two.

“Be especially nice to Sparkle,” Harvath added. “The entire cabin—lights, music, temperature—runs on an app and she’s the only one who has been able to figure it out.”

Rolling her eyes, the woman Harvath had identified as Sparkle stood up, came forward, and introduced herself. “Nice to meet you, Monika, I’m Sloane Ashby.”

She was a very attractive woman. In her late twenties, she had blond hair, smoky gray eyes, and distinctly high cheekbones.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Monika said, shaking Sloane’s hand.

“If you haven’t figured it out yet, Harvath’s superpower is being a smartass.”

“It’s pronouncedjackass!” someone yelled from the back.

Sloane chuckled and continued. “So, like I said, I’m Sloane. Let me introduce you to everyone else.”

Gesturing with her hands as if she was giving an airplane safety demonstration, she pointed to each team member and gave their real name and background as they walked down the aisle. Each stood and politely shook her hand as they were introduced.

“First up,” said Sloane. “Mike Haney, USMC Force Recon.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the six-foot-tall, forty-year-old Marin, California, native said.

“Next, Tim Barton, US Navy SEALs, DEVGRU.”

The stocky fireplug of a man was in his early thirties. Despite only standing about five-foot-six, he looked tough as hell. He had reddish blond hair and a full beard to match.

“Then we have Tyler Staelin, Combat Applications Group, or simply CAG. Which used to be called Delta Force, but is still referred to as the Unit. I think. I can’t be sure. There may have already been another name change since we got on the plane.”

The thirty-nine-year-old from downstate Illinois smiled as he shook her hand. He stood five-foot-ten and had a book on the table in front of his seat calledBeirut Rulesby Fred Burton.

“I’ve heard of that book,” said Jasinski. “Is it any good?”

“That bearded refrigerator you met earlier today gave it to me,” he replied. “I’m only a couple of chapters in, but so far it’s excellent.”

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