Spymaster

CHAPTER 28

Oleg Tretyakov poured himself a glass of wine as he processed the recent spate of intelligence reports he had received. The first had been the most troubling. The cell on Gotland had been under surveillance. But as far as they knew, by only one person — an older man in his sixties.

Staffan Sparrman had noticed him multiple times — both in his white Volkswagen Passat, and on foot. When the man had been on foot, he was particularly conspicuous because of his distinctive Alpine hat.

The handler for the Gotland cell was one of Tretyakov’s most trusted lieutenants. The strategic importance of the Swedish island had made it imperative that he put his best man in charge. Ivan Kuznetsov was that man.

Kuznetsov was brilliant, brutal, and beyond loyal. Had Tretyakov wanted, he could have also added the word “butcher” to describe him, as Kuznetsov had grown up in a family of butchers and had begun expertly butchering hogs at a young age.

His knowledge of butchery, his brutality in dealing with Russia’s enemies, and his skill in using a knife had earned Kuznetsov the nickname “Kutznutzov.”

His peasant upbringing, though, had always been a millstone around his thick neck. It had been a source of derision for others while he was in the military. He had no formal education to speak of, having left school in the fifth grade to work full-time for his family’s business. But, as the Russian Army freed him from his village and allowed him to see more of the world, he had educated himself through books — anything at all he could get his hands on.

He liked books about politics, history, and art. Though he had never been there, he hoped one day to visit Florence and Rome — to walk in the footsteps of Machiavelli and Michelangelo. For now, though, he was confined to Gotland.

Kuznetsov was a deep-cover operative, part of the Russian illegals program. The term “illegal” referred to a Russian intelligence officer operating in a foreign country without official cover, such as an embassy employee or consular staff member.

He was the quintessential gray man — a person of average height and average looks who was easily forgettable — brown hair, brown eyes, nothing special. He didn’t call attention to himself.

Putting his butchering skills to work, he had found employment at an animal-processing plant on the island. He was knowledgeable, arrived early, stayed late, and never complained. It didn’t take him long to climb the ranks.

He enjoyed getting out and meeting the various farmers and ranchers, seeing their livestock, and even lending a helping hand during lambing season and other such times.

His papers identified him as a refugee from Kosovo named Dominik Gashi. And even though he wasn’t a Swede, he was appreciated and well-liked. As such, he spent a lot of social time with the farmers, ranchers, and other members of the community. That was how he had spotted and assessed Staffan Sparrman for potential recruitment.

With Tretyakov’s permission, he had then slowly begun to develop Sparrman, building a deeper, more personal relationship with him. He began getting together with him on a one-on-one basis, sounding him out on different topics — one of which was politics.

By the time the recruitment phase rolled around, he had Sparrman fully on the hook. The key to exploiting him wasn’t some weakness like gambling, drugs, or adultery, but rather it was ideological. He was a true believer in communism, but he had grown disillusioned with what he saw as a watered-down Communist Party in Sweden. Convinced that he couldn’t make a difference, he had given up and put all of his attention into the family farm.

His greatest hope was that one day he could find a woman with whom he was ideologically aligned. Perhaps, if things worked out, they could get married and raise a family. Sparrman was still young, and Kuznetsov had used this longing to his advantage.

The Russian had arranged to have an attractive GRU asset, who specialized in honey traps, vacation on the island. All he had to do was create a scenario where the two would cross paths, and he let the GRU asset handle the rest.

It was quite a steamy affair, and like most vacation flings, it eventually had to come to an end. But when the asset returned to Russia, she kept in touch with Sparrman via text messages, emails, and the occasional Skype video calls. With as light a touch as possible, she encouraged him not to give up on the communist cause and built him up to believe he could do great things. Kuznetsov then handled the rest.

Sparrman was his entry point into mainstream Gotland culture, and Kuznetsov built his network of assets and spies from there. Coming from a political family, Sparrman seemed to know where everyone on the island stood. Having grown up with all of them, he also knew what their weaknesses were and where they were the most vulnerable for recruitment.

The fact that Kuznetsov could safely use the family farm of the Governor of Gotland as his base of operations was an incredible coup. Of course, it helped that Kerstin Sparrman had an apartment in Visby and preferred to live there rather than out on the farm, but nevertheless Kuznetsov — and by extension his superior, Oleg Tretyakov — had been widely heralded back at GRU headquarters for their ingenuity. Operating an intelligence network right under the nose of the most important official on Gotland was the stuff of legend.

For his part, Kuznetsov didn’t see it as the stuff of legend. It just made good sense. The Sparrman farm was quite big. There were not only multiple places to have meetings undetected, but also countless places to hide caches of money, munitions, weapons, and assorted equipment.

But best of all, the farm allowed for the hiring of foreign laborers — big, strong men who under almost any other employment circumstances would have stood out on Gotland like sore thumbs. Tretyakov loved that he could create the Swedish cell and hide it in plain sight.

Sweden was undergoing a shortage in the labor market — particularly when it came to manual labor such as farm work. Visas to import workers from abroad were easy to come by.

A GRU intelligence officer working under official cover at the Russian Embassy in Stockholm had someone on his payroll in the Swedish Immigration Department. The immigration official was essentially a rubber stamp. All the GRU man from the embassy had to do was put the paperwork in front of him and he would sign off. No questions asked. Tretyakov had had no problem getting the men he needed into the country, over to Gotland, and to work on the Sparrman farm.

Kuznetsov not only had his own homegrown espionage network to gather intelligence, but he also had his own team of Russian Special Forces soldiers, known as Spetsnaz, lying in wait for when Moscow gave the order to launch the cell’s mission against the local garrison. It couldn’t have all come together in a more perfect fashion.

Which was why the man in the Alpine hat sniffing around the cell had caused such concern throughout the ranks.

Though he needed Tretyakov’s permission, Kuznetsov had already decided what needed to be done. The man had to be eliminated.

The word back from Tretyakov, though, was that it had to look like an accident. He had also wanted it done quickly, plus he wanted the man’s phone, laptop, and any other items of interest he might be in possession of. If they could uncover who he was and why he had been following Sparrman, that would be a valuable bonus.

Staging a vehicle accident was not as easy as it appeared in the movies. Even so, Kuznetsov and the Spetsnaz operatives had plenty of experience and were confident they could pull it off. They also had the perfect piece of bait — Sparrman. All they needed to do was pick the right location and spring their trap.

Catching the attention of the man in the Alpine hat had been easy. They had set up what appeared to be a clandestine rendezvous between Sparrman and another farmer in an easy-to-observe location.

The other farmer, who owed Sparrman some mundane paperwork, handed the documents over and Sparrman furtively tucked them into his jacket pocket. It didn’t have to be anything more than that.

Sparrman withdrew a map of the island and had a brief discussion with the farmer about spring grazing. Circling a location on the map, he thanked the farmer, shook hands, and returning to his vehicle, drove away. The man in the Alpine hat followed in his white VW Passat.

Kuznetsov and his team stayed in touch with Sparrman the entire time via encrypted radios. Gradually, they had him increase his speed. As he did, the white Passat trailing behind him matched his pace.

The Spetsnaz operatives had prescreened the route and had chosen the best location for the accident to happen. What they hadn’t counted on was another car coming by so soon afterward.

The accident itself had gone off perfectly — even better than they had planned.

Traveling with the headlights off, the man in the white VW was so focused on Sparrman in front of him that he never even noticed the Spetsnaz men come up on him from behind in a green Mercedes SUV.

By the time he realized they were there, they had moved into the opposite lane, as if to pass. Then, all of a sudden, they brought their vehicle slamming into his left rear quarter panel, causing him to swerve and lose control.

The white VW Passat shot off the road, rolled, and slammed into a tree with such force it sounded like an explosion.

They had been prepared to snap the man’s neck, but it turned out not to be necessary. By the time they got to his vehicle, he was already dead.

Quickly, they patted down all of his pockets and went through the rest of his car — taking his cell phone and his laptop bag, complete with a Toshiba notebook.

Before they could make a second, more thorough pass, they heard a car coming. They had no choice but to flee the scene.

As they left, they reached out to Johansson, another local member of the network, to let him know that everything had gone according to plan. They told him to expect a call to go out from his dispatcher shortly.

Knowing where and when the accident would take place, Johansson had arranged to be in the area, so that he could be the first law enforcement officer on the scene. In case the Spetsnaz operatives missed anything, which he highly doubted, he’d be able to take care of it.

When the passing motorists stopped to see what had happened, the call to the police followed less than a minute later. Immediately, the dispatcher was putting out the call for all available units to respond. Johansson radioed back his position and that he was en route. He had a good fifteen minutes at the scene before anyone else showed up. Not that he needed it. The Spetsnaz members had done a perfect job.

Back in Kaliningrad, Tretyakov had been pleased to get the good news. The man in the Alpine hat had been taken care of and the cell was still intact, ready to act. The man’s phone and the laptop would be couriered by one of Kuznetsov’s people to an agent in Stockholm. From there, it would be placed in the Russian Embassy’s diplomatic pouch and sent to Moscow where it could be fully examined.

In the meantime, Tretyakov had authorized another attack by the People’s Revolutionary Front. He had decided not only to oblige his superiors by moving up the timetable, but also to up the carnage.

If tonight’s operation was successful, it would be their most spectacular achievement yet.