“What do you think?”
“I think it could go either way. But regardless, we need to find out.”
“Is that what all the Storm cases are about?” she asked. “What’s inside them?”
Harvath winked at her. “Pens, pencils, paper—that sort of thing. This is a fact-finding trip. We’re just here to learn.”
“Right.” She laughed. “And I’ve got a big, beautiful bridge to sell you in San Francisco.”
“Too dangerous.”
“Bridges?”
“No, San Francisco,” he replied.
She laughed again. He smiled back.
Slowly, he was winning her over. That was important, because he needed her. In truth, he needed a hundred more like her, a thousand.
The threats faced by Western Europe were rapidly changing, evolving. Unfortunately, Western Europe wasn’t.
By not leaning in, by not being aggressive, they were encouraging more acts of violence upon their nations and their citizens. They had forgotten that civilization lives, thrives, and survives only when it is willing to wield a very sharp sword. If you didn’t meet the barbarians out on the road, soon they’d be at your gates. And once at your gates, be they Islamic terrorists or Russian soldiers, they would soon be inside.
Simply put, Western Europe’s enemies did not fear them. They did not fear them because they did not respect them. And they did not respect them because the Western Europeans would not fight.
The Europeans, like any noble society, prided themselves upon what set them apart, what made them better than the barbarians—their laws. The barbarians didn’t care for laws. They only cared for brute force—What can I take, whom can I subjugate, what can I make mine through sheer force of will?
Law and civilization were supremely important things, but without strength, and a willingness to engage the enemy, they were worthless.
Harvath had always appreciated the maxim of an Army Lieutenant Colonel named David Grossman. In Grossman’s mind, there were just three categories of human beings—sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves.
To those three categories, Harvath had added another—wolf hunters. That was what the world needed more of.
The sheep had only two speeds—graze and stampede. They needed sheepdogs to keep them safe in case of an attack by the wolves. Wolf hunters, though, were needed to find and kill the wolves, whenever possible, before they attacked.
Harvath was a wolf hunter. His whole team was composed of wolf hunters. He saw the potential for Jasinski to be one, too. That’s why it was important that she experience what they did and understand why they were necessary. He and his team couldn’t be everywhere. There were too many hot spots, too many threats.
But when they did appear, only for the most serious of threats, they acted as a force multiplier. And in those situations, like now, the more wolf hunters they helped create, the more endangered the wolves became, and the safer the places the hunters protected.
“So,” she said, breaking into his thoughts, “what do I need to know before we land?”
Harvath thought about it for a moment. “You’re with an exceptional team that’s on the right side of this fight,” he replied. “No matter what happens, just remember that.”
CHAPTER 20
* * *
GOTLAND, SWEDEN
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.