“Which is precisely why we want him. To keep the Russians off balance.”
“I understand, but there’s one problem. Carlton never revealed his identity.”
“What?”
“Never. Not to anyone. It was one of his most closely guarded secrets.”
“Then we need to go talk to him.”
She shook her head. “I’ve tried. Over and over again. That part of his mind isn’t coming back. It’s a secret he’ll take to his grave. Unless . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Unless what?” Kopec asked.
“Unless we can piece the identity together through his personal papers. He kept journals, much of the material coded. We’ve made a little progress, but a lot of it is slow going. We have to cross-reference where he said he was and what he was doing with classified accounts in the CIA archives. It’s like trying to put together a puzzle in the dark.”
Tapping the top of her tiny glass, she gestured for him to refill it. Once he had, she sipped it and began to spill her guts. “You have no idea how frustrating all of this has been. If I had known what I was walking into, I don’t know if I ever would have agreed to take this job.
“Every time I turn around, there’s another hole in the dike that needs plugging, but only Reed Carlton’s fingers fit and he can’t remember where to put them. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Kopec didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t be sure if it was the alcohol talking, or if Ryan was simply unburdening herself to a trusted colleague. Either way, what she was revealing about the disarray in her organization was quite troublesome.
He listened intently and slowly began to steer their conversation back to Matterhorn. “Realistically, how soon do you think you might have the identity?”
She stopped, mid-sip in her vodka, and pondered his question. “It could be a day, a week, or a month. Who knows? There’s also the problem that, even if we could come to some sort of an agreement about Matterhorn, Carlton is unable to introduce a new handler and orchestrate a handoff.”
As far as Kopec was concerned, that was the least of their worries. Just knowing whom the asset was would be a huge step forward. “Let me ask you something,” he said, shifting gears. “Do you know why Carlton selected the codename Matterhorn? Was it significant somehow? Connected?”
Finishing the shot, she returned the glass to the table and shook her head. “When it comes to Reed Carlton, I don’t have the slightest clue. I can’t even begin to think the way that he does—even on his worst day. He was always ten steps ahead of everybody.”
“That he was,” agreed the Pole as he started to pour her another drink.
Ryan, though, politely waved him off and turned over her glass.
“I’ve already had too much. I apologize.”
“Don’t apologize. You’ve got a lot on your plate,” he said.
Looking down, she realized that she hadn’t even touched her caviar. Assembling a blini, she directed their conversation back to the upgrade kits. “If I gave you my word that you can have Matterhorn—if and when I identify him—would you be willing to push into Belarus for me?”
“For you? Or for the United States?”
“For me,” she replied.
Kopec thought about her offer for several moments. Looking at her, he finally said, “For you and for five hundred thousand dollars, I’d be willing to take the risk of pushing into Belarus. But understand something, Lydia. I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret that trust. That would be a very foolish thing to do. Believe me.”
CHAPTER 26
* * *
GOTLAND, SWEDEN
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.