Spymaster

CHAPTER 26

The wrecking yard was attached to an auto body shop in a warehouse district on the other side of Visby. Harvath had already texted his team to give them an update. Pulling up to the gate, Chief Inspector Nyström removed a set of keys from his pocket and exited his vehicle.

After unlocking the chain and throwing the gates open, he returned to the car.

“You’ve got your own key?” Harvath asked.

“Small island,” Nyström replied, putting the car in gear and driving forward. “This is my uncle’s business. When I work nights, I often drop by to make sure everything is okay.”

Circling around to the back, they parked and got out. Nyström popped his trunk and removed a rather mediocre flashlight. “We’ll probably need this,” he said, clicking it on.

Harvath slid his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew his tactical flashlight. When he depressed the tail cap, it produced a quick, intense strobe. “Mine’s better.”

“Americans,” the Chief Inspector sighed, as he led Harvath to the back of the lot.

When they arrived at the southwest corner, Nyström shone his flashlight across the wreckage of Lars Lund’s vehicle.

It was a ten-year-old white Volkswagen Passat. The Chief Inspector had not been exaggerating. The damage was quite extensive. Seeing the state of the car for himself, Harvath could understand why the accident had resulted in a fatality. The question, though, was what had caused it.

Circling the vehicle, Harvath examined every square inch under his flashlight. He stopped at the left rear quarter panel.

It was in bad shape, just like the rest of the vehicle, but there was something else. It was a scratch, about three inches long, but in a completely different color from the rest of the car. It looked like some shade of olive, almost a military-style green.

Not wanting to draw Nyström’s attention, he moved on. When he got to the other side of the car, he asked, “Did the vehicle crash through any guard rails?”

The Chief Inspector shook his head. “It was open countryside.”

“No livestock or property fencing?”

“No. Only rocks, and trees, and grass. Why? Did you find something?”

Harvath shook his head. “Just trying to wrap my head around all the damage.”

Continuing his investigation, he proceeded slowly around the Volkswagen until he was done. Nothing, though, jumped out to him other than the olive-colored scratch.

“I’m done,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Okay, then,” replied Nyström. “I’ll give you a ride back.”

Walking back to the entrance, Harvath waited as the Chief Inspector reversed his car out, and then closed and locked the gates for him.

Sliding back into the front passenger seat, he shut his door and they headed for the airport.

“Do you have any idea where Mr. Lund was staying?” Nyström asked. “There was no hotel keycard among his possessions. Could he have been staying at the garrison without telling them the true purpose of his visit?”

“It’s possible,” Harvath lied. The man in the hat was supposed to have arranged a safe house for all of them — someplace where they could interrogate their person of interest without being disturbed.

Allegedly, the man in the hat also had their subject under passive surveillance. Cameras had been set up to monitor his coming and going. When Lund had hinted that he might take a more active role and start following him, to see where the subject went and whom he met with, Harvath had tried to dissuade him. You couldn’t do surveillance, at least not effectively, with just one person. It was too dangerous.

Now the man in the hat was dead. After having looked the Passat over, Harvath was growing more convinced that Lund’s death hadn’t been an accident. Somewhere along the way, Lars Lund had screwed up and it had cost him his life.

“How about you?” the Chief Inspector asked.

Harvath, who had been processing all of the information, hadn’t caught the question. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Did Mr. Lund make arrangements for you?”

“He was going to set something up, but I don’t know where.”

“I’ll have an officer reach out to the different hotels; perhaps we can find where he was staying.”

Harvath nodded.

“Will you be staying or returning to Brussels?”

“I think we’ll be staying, at least until SHAPE decides what it wants to do.”

“Of course. If, in the meantime, you need any help finding rooms,” said Nyström, “let me know. I’m sure we can assist you.”

“Thank you.”

Fishing a business card from his pocket, the Chief Inspector handed it to Harvath. “My cell phone number is on the back. If anything comes to mind that you think might be useful in our investigation, please call me. Day or night.”

Harvath took the card and tucked it inside his jacket. He’d been toying with revealing the name of their subject. With Lund deceased, he was at a literal dead end. He didn’t know where to find him. He decided to take the police officer into his confidence.

“There may be something,” he offered.

Nyström kept his eyes on the road, but even in the dark of the car, it was obvious that his interest had been piqued. “What is it?”

“I assume you have heard about the attacks on the three NATO diplomats?”

“Yes. Most terrible.”

“And the situation in Norway?”

“Yes,” the Chief Inspector repeated. “The same group was allegedly involved there as well. The People’s Revolutionary Front. They had planned to sabotage military equipment, correct?”

“Exactly,” said Harvath.

“Is there some sort of connection to Mr. Lund or to Gotland?”

“We don’t know,” Harvath lied, again. “But as you can imagine, in light of these attacks, NATO has adopted a much higher security posture. Part of our assignment here was to do a security assessment.”

“What does that entail?”

“Pretty basic stuff, really. Is Gotland safe for NATO personnel? Are there any anti-NATO elements here who may be connected to the People’s Revolutionary Front, et cetera.”

“As far as the police are concerned, we are not aware of any anti-NATO groups here on the island. I’m sure people have opinions, but organized resistance? No. Back on the mainland might be a different situation, especially in and around Stockholm, but not here.”

“That’s good to know,” replied Harvath. “There is, though, one person we have interest in.”

“On Gotland?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Staffan Sparrman. Are you familiar with him?”

The Chief Inspector pulled his car over to the side of the road and stopped. Turning to look at Harvath, he said, “I am going to give you one chance — that’s all — to tell me what the hell is going on. If you don’t, I’m going to place you and the rest of your people under arrest until we get all of this sorted out.”

“Obviously, you’re familiar with him,” said Harvath.

“Of course I am,” Nyström replied. “Staffan Sparrman is the son of Kerstin Sparrman, the Governor of Gotland.”