Spymaster

CHAPTER 43

Harvath took a good, hard look at Staffan Sparrman. Haney and Staelin had him tied to a chair in an equipment shed on the edge of the rental property. It smelled like gasoline and rotten wood. They had stripped him down to his soiled white underwear. His hood was still on.

The cold had gotten to him. He had only been in the shed for a while, but he was shivering.

There was a tarp in the corner. Harvath gathered it up and draped it over his shoulders.

“Staffan, listen to my voice,” he said. “The worst of this can already be behind you. It is your decision. If you cooperate with me, you will be home, in your own bed, before the night is over. Do you understand me?”

Harvath watched as the man slowly nodded.

“That’s good. Now, before we get started, I want you to know the ground rules. Only a few kilometers from here, we also have your mother, the Governor, in custody.”

It was a lie, of course, but Sparrman didn’t know that. All he knew was that he had been taken captive. Why wouldn’t the same people have been able to do the same to his mother? This was Gotland. She didn’t have police protection. There was no need.

Harvath watched as Sparrman’s body tensed. As Harvath had suspected, despite the man’s difficult relationship with his mother, he still cared for her.

“If you answer my questions truthfully,” he continued, “no harm will come to her. Do you understand? If so, nod.”

Again, the man slowly nodded.

“Good. Here’s the flip side. If you lie to me, or if I suspect you are lying to me, whatever pain I make you feel, your mother is also going to feel. Is that clear? If so, nod.”

Even more slowly this time, the man nodded.

“Good,” said Harvath. “Let’s give this a try. We’ll start with something easy. You have Russian Special Forces soldiers working on your farm.”

Instantly, the man shook his head.

Harvath drove the open metal contacts of Chase’s Taser into Sparrman’s ribs and depressed the trigger.

Sparrman’s body went rigid as he cried out and wet himself again, the urine running down his left leg and onto the floor.

Harvath pulled the Taser back and gave the man a chance to regain his composure.

“Did you see what happened in Rome, Staffan?”

The man’s head lolled from side to side. There was a fog detainees could slip into. It was the brain disconnecting from the trauma being inflicted on the body. In essence, it was a psychological safe space. Harvath was having none of it.

Drawing his open hand back, he brought it slicing down and slapped Sparrman hard, on the side of his head.

With the duct tape still over his mouth, there was only so much noise he could make.

Raising the radio to his mouth, Harvath said, “Taser the Governor.”

Immediately, Sparrman attempted to cry out and shook his head from side to side.

Moments later, a distant woman’s scream came back across the radio. Hearing it, Sparrman slumped.

“Are there Russians working on your farm?” Harvath asked.

This time, the man answered with the truth. He nodded.

“Are they Spetsnaz?”

Again, Sparrman nodded.

“Who’s in charge?”

It was the first time he had asked something other than a yes or no question. With the tape over his mouth, Sparrman wouldn’t be able to answer.

Reaching under the hood, Harvath found the duct tape and tore it off. It was painful and the Swede flinched.

“Who?” Harvath repeated.

“Help!” Sparrman screamed in Swedish. “Someone, please! Help me! Help!”

Balling his hand into a fist, Harvath drew it back and hit him so hard in the side of his head that it knocked him, and his chair, over onto the floor.

With the man on the floor, stunned, or maybe even unconscious, Harvath took a moment to examine his hand. No matter how careful he was, hitting someone that hard always hurt like hell.

Why didn’t they ever just cooperate? he wondered. Why did they always resist? What was the point? Until they told him what he wanted to know, there was no escape, no getting out. He was in charge. But how bad things would get was totally up to them. Yet they still fought.

That was fine. Eventually, they all broke. All of them.

Pulling the chair back upright, he gave Sparrman a few light slaps through the hood to bring him back around.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Sparrman?” he asked.

Beneath the hood, the man nodded.

Holding up his radio, Harvath said, “Good. Now listen to what is about to happen to your mother.”

With that, there were a series of what sounded like distant slaps followed by more of the same woman’s screams. Though they were allegedly happening kilometers away, Sparrman winced and felt each one personally. Sloane was doing a very convincing acting job.

Setting the radio down, Harvath looked at his prisoner. The tarp he had kindly draped across his shoulders lay on the floor. He was bleeding from beneath his hood. If Harvath had to guess, it was from his mouth or his nose — maybe his ear as well. He was shaking again from the cold. He was in bad shape.

“How much more will you put your poor mother through, Staffan?” he asked.

The man didn’t seem ready to answer. That was fine by Harvath. Inside the shed was a large plastic bucket. Crossing over to it, he picked it up and brought it back over to where Sparrman was seated.

Lifting the man’s feet, he placed them inside the bucket. Then he walked over to the corner and retrieved a large gas can.

Bringing it back over, he unscrewed the cap, and held it under Sparrman’s nose for several seconds. After affixing the spout, he began to pour, sloshing plenty of it over the Swede’s legs and thighs.

Some even splashed against the man’s private parts. It stung like hell, and that’s when Sparrman began screaming.