Spymaster

CHAPTER 3

This side of the ravine was just as treacherous as the side Harvath, Jasinski, and the Norwegians had come down earlier. From what he could tell, the rabbit he was chasing didn’t have that much of a head start. The footprints were still glowing warm in his scope.

Based on the size of the print and length of stride, he guessed it was a man, about his size: five-foot-ten or maybe a little taller. He was hauling ass, but he wasn’t very graceful. The thermal scope indicated multiple locations where the subject had lost his footing and had fallen to the ground. But where was he going?

Harvath had done his homework. He knew the area, had memorized maps and satellite imagery. There was an old logging road that cut through the forest about three klicks from the cabin. There was also an abandoned rail line just beyond it. He figured it was more likely this guy had a car stashed somewhere. He had to be headed toward the road.

It was a bitch using the scope to track him, but it was the only way to spot the man’s heat signature. Stopping to flip his night-vision goggles up slowed Harvath down. He did what he could to quicken his pace and close the gap, but the faster he moved, the greater the chance he’d slip and come down hard. Cracking his knee, an elbow, or his skull wasn’t something he was interested in.

That said, he wasn’t interested in losing the rabbit either. He’d been tracking this group for months. Portugal, Spain, Greece. They’d always been three steps ahead. Until tonight.

Now, he was ahead of them. He’d arrived before they could carry out another similar attack. Momentum hadn’t necessarily shifted fully in his favor, but it had looked over its shoulder and glanced in his direction.

That was good enough. Considering the stakes, Harvath would take anything he could get.

Checking the scope again, he tracked the footprints until they disappeared around the next bend. The rabbit obviously knew the forest, eschewing established trails for making his own way through the trees.

That was fine by Harvath. He had hunted worse than rabbits over his career. Ice be damned, he doubled his pace.

Minutes later, he caught sight of his quarry. Jeans, hiking boots, hooded jacket. Over his shoulder was a backpack.

Transitioning to his rifle, Harvath attempted to capture the rabbit in his sights, but before he could press the trigger, the man disappeared.

Fuck.

He swept the weapon from left to right. There was nothing. He was gone. Letting the rifle hang, Harvath transitioned back to his pistol to leave one hand free for the thermal scope.

Pushing deeper into the trees, he continued to follow the heat signature of the footprints. The ground was still slick, but it was less ice and more snow. Fifty meters later, there was a shot.

Harvath dropped to the ground as the bullet snapped over his head. The rabbit was armed. Where the hell was he?

Peering through the scope, he could see a break in the trees up ahead. And there, making his way toward the logging road, gun in hand, was the white-hot outline of his target.

Raising his pistol, Harvath took up the slack in the trigger and fired three rounds.

The rabbit went down.

For several seconds, Harvath watched for movement. Seeing none, he cautiously closed the distance.

Approaching the body, he saw a lot of blood. One of his bullets had caught the man in the neck.

After kicking the man’s gun aside, he felt for a pulse. Nothing. Removing the rabbit’s rucksack, he opened the top and looked inside.

It contained envelopes of currency, driver’s licenses, and several cell phones. By the looks of it, the man had tried to sanitize the cabin. Leaving the cash, Harvath pocketed the phones. And after quickly photographing the IDs, pocketed those as well.

Patting down the rabbit, Harvath snatched the man’s phone, photographed his personal ID, and examined his pocket litter. He took pictures of everything.

Wanting to transmit it all back to the U.S. as quickly as possible, he headed for the logging road. There, he’d find a break in the trees and would be able to get a signal.

When he arrived at the road, he pulled out his satellite phone, powered it up, and connected it to his cell phone. Using an encrypted app created for the military called XGate BLACK, he compressed and reformatted his photos so that they would upload faster. The sooner they could dig in on the people who had been in that cabin, the better.

As the photos prepared to load, he drafted a quick situation report to be included in his email.

“Norseman” was Harvath’s call-sign, Jasinski was his “plus one,” and “Eagles Oscar” meant that they were both uninjured.

As he wasn’t in a position to be resupplied, he refrained from giving any updates on his current level of ammunition or the condition of his weapon. He simply went straight to the meat:

While the U.S. military had switched to the term MAM, short for military-age-male, as well as EKIA for enemy-killed-in-action, his organization still preferred Tango. It didn’t engage in a lot of navel-gazing.

With the photos ready to go and a strong signal from overhead, he reviewed the message and hit Send.

Moments later, his sat phone vibrated with a reply:

O.M. was code for Harvath’s boss and mentor, Reed Carlton — someone he was very close to and someone whose health had been deteriorating. The news was not good. He kept his reply short and to the point:

Once the message had sent, he powered down his sat phone, disconnected his cell, and headed back toward the cabin.

Halfway there, he encountered Jasinski. Harvath had taken his helmet off, revealing his short, sandy colored hair.

“What happened?” she asked. “I heard shots.”

It took him a moment to respond. He was still thinking about Carlton, trying to put pieces together several steps ahead. “One of them ran,” he finally said.

“Is he still alive?”

Harvath shook his head.

“Damn it. I tried to hail you over the radio. Why didn’t you answer?”

He pointed to the earpiece hanging over his shoulder.

“You could have waited,” she declared. “And by the way, who authorized you to carry a weapon?”

He wasn’t in the mood for an interrogation. “Not now,” he replied.

His response only made her angrier. This was her investigation, not his, yet for some unknown reason she’d been forced to accept him as a “consultant.” Something very strange was going on and she intended to get to the bottom of it. No matter what.