Spymaster

CHAPTER 20

They landed at Visby Airport on the west side of the island. Seeing the town’s name emblazoned upon one of the hangars, Jasinski said, “Visby’s an interesting name. I wonder where it comes from.”

“It’s Old Norse,” Harvath replied. “It means the pagan place of sacrifices.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“What a delightful omen,” she stated.

Harvath grinned.

At one hundred miles long and thirty miles wide, Gotland was Sweden’s largest island and was known as the Pearl of the Baltic. It lay ninety miles from the mainland and was home to sixty thousand inhabitants, twenty-three thousand of whom lived in the main town of Visby.

Surrounded by the Baltic Sea, its coasts were craggy and windswept, covered with limestone pebbles, while its interior boasted lush pine forests, dramatic grass marshes, sprawling meadows, and fertile, verdant farmland.

As the jet rolled to a stop, a private aviation ground crew materialized and laid down a red carpet.

Looking out the window, Harvath didn’t see his contact. What he did see were two uniformed police officers — one tall, one short, along with a man in a leather coat, exiting the FBO building and walking in the direction of their plane.

“What’s going on?” Jasinski asked, as she looked out the window at the men who were approaching.

Picking up his cell phone, he dialed the man in the hat. It went immediately to voicemail. He tried again with the same result.

“Do me a favor,” he said, pulling out his Sig Sauer and handing it to her. “Hold this for me until I get back.”

“What’s up?” Sloane asked from the back.

Chase, who could see the cops approaching through his window, said, “Karma. I’ve got a hundred bucks that says Harvath dated at least one of their daughters.”

“Time to face the music, Norseman,” Barton joked.

Harvath ignored them as he grabbed his North Face jacket and moved forward. Sticking his head in the cockpit, he told the pilots, “Keep the engines hot.”

Then he disarmed the forward door, opened it up, and extended the airstairs. They hit dead center at the top of the red carpet. The chilly, salt-tinged ocean air blew through the open doorway.

As he zipped up his jacket and prepared to walk down to speak with the men, Jasinski changed seats so she could get a better view of what was happening. Sloane came up and joined her.

“Any idea what this is all about?” the NATO investigator asked again.

“I don’t know,” Sloane replied. “The man in the hat was supposed to meet us. Apparently, he’s not here.”

“Why do you keep calling him that? Doesn’t he have a name?”

Sloane smiled. “Lars Lund. He works for Sweden’s Military Intelligence and Security Service.”

“MUST,” Jasinski replied, using its acronym. Part of the Swedish armed forces, MUST was the country’s main foreign intelligence service and reported to both the government and the military.

Sloane nodded. “Lars is known for his good looks — tall, blond, and Nordic. But he is even better known for his vanity. When he started to go bald, his friends began buying him hats. His trademark is one of those small Alpine-style caps made out of felt.”

“A Tyrolean?”

“That’s the one. He has all kinds of them.”

“Which division of MUST is he from?” Jasinski asked.

“Now you’re going to stump me,” Sloane replied. “I’m not up to speed on all the acronyms yet.”

“It’s okay. What does he specialize in?”

“Espionage and clandestine operations.”

“He’s probably in KSI then.”

“That’s the one,” said Sloane.

Also known as the Office for Special Assignment, KSI was the darkest corner of Swedish intelligence. In all of the country’s civil law system, there was only one mention of it.

Jasinski was intrigued. “How is it you know him?” she asked.

“I don’t. Not personally. I only know of him. He and my boss go way back together.”

“Lars and Harvath do?”

Sloane smiled. “I should rephrase that. Lars and my boss’s boss go way back.”

“And who is your boss’s boss?”

Sloane smiled once more. “Now we’re getting into things above my pay grade.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?”

“It’s better if you ask Harvath,” she replied as she glanced back out the window.

Jasinski realized that she had likely hit a dead end. Changing the subject, she, too, looked out the window and asked. “Are we in trouble?”

“Only if they search our luggage.”

Shit, Jasinski mumbled under her breath.

“And knowing Harvath,” Sloane continued, “he probably did date one of their daughters. So we’re probably totally screwed.”

The joke made her smile. “Where’d he get the Norseman call-sign?”

“In the SEALs. He had a thing for flight attendants from Scandinavian Airlines. Dated quite a few of them. The name started as a joke, but stuck.”

“And now?”

“Meaning what?” Sloane replied. “Is he dating? Married?”

Jasinski nodded.

Sloane grinned. “Yeah. His friends refer to her as the ‘underwear model.’ Her parents are from Brazil. She’s gorgeous. Super smart, tough as hell, and really sweet. Why? You’re not interested in him, are you?”

“Me?” Jasinski scoffed. “No. Not at all. Just curious.”

She’s a liar. And not a very good one, Sloane thought. But better for her to know up front. Harvath was as close to marriage as you could get without actually being married. The joke around The Carlton Group was that if he ever came back home long enough for there to be a wedding, he’d probably be married already.

As far as Sloane was concerned, Harvath would be an idiot not to marry Lara. They were made for each other. She’d never seen two people click as well as those two.

But what truly amazed her was how Harvath could put his entire personal life in a box, slam the lid shut, and not let it intrude on his thinking while he was downrange on a mission.

He had an iron will. It was the only way she could describe it. Only half-joking, she had teased that she hoped to grow up and be just like him one day.

She made a lot of jokes at Harvath’s expense, especially about his being older, but he took them all in stride. He was like the older brother she never had.

Harvath made his share of jokes at her expense as well. One of his favorites was that she was just young enough and good looking enough to be a rich country-club doctor’s perfect idea of a third wife.

That had cracked Sloane up. Outside their age difference, she and Harvath were very similar personality-wise. Both had been accomplished winter athletes before joining the military. They were also hard chargers who employed a lot of take-no-prisoners humor to buoy morale in order to get through tough assignments, as well as just the day-to-day.

It had always impressed her that he had never come on to her. Many men, even in leadership positions, had, but not him. It was one of the many reasons she respected him.

“I have it on good authority,” Sloane joked, “that he sleeps with a light on and leaves the toilet seat up. You can do better. Much better. Believe me.”

Jasinski laughed and tried to appear blasé. He was off the market. His teammates liked his significant other and apparently the two were a good match. She had been foolish to allow her mind to even explore the possibility.

You got one really good chance in life and she’d had hers. It had been wonderful, while it lasted. That kind of person didn’t come around twice. She consoled herself with the thought that at least she had her work.

Concentrating on the scene unfolding outside, the two watched as Harvath descended the airstairs and approached the man in the leather coat flanked by the pair of police officers.

Despite the jokes that had been made at Harvath’s expense, suddenly the situation didn’t seem funny anymore.