“First, we don’t have enough concrete evidence that we could release to the media. It would be our word against the Russians’. They would spin it as a wild conspiracy theory. Fake news. Perhaps even claim it is a plot by us to discredit them. As we discussed before, if we can’t completely control the narrative, we don’t want it out there.”
“And, if I might add,” injected McGee, “putting the story out there might not change anything. All we’d be doing is tipping our hand to Moscow. We should stick with Harvath’s plan.”
“It’s turning into a bloodbath,” stated the President. “We have to do something.”
“We are doing something,” Ryan reassured him. “We’re actively targeting their propaganda apparatus, as well as the PRF itself. Director McGee is right. We need to stick to the plan.”
“But can you assure me that it’s working?”
“Yes. It’s working.”
Pointing at the coverage on his television, Porter replied, “Because that doesn’t look like it’s working to me.”
“Mr. President,” said McGee, “the Russians were always going to have a head start on us. We had no idea where or when the starting gun was going to go off. Now that it has, we’re right on their heels.”
Porter looked at Ryan. She was the one in charge of the ground operation. “Is that true?” he asked. “Are we right on their heels?”
No, it wasn’t true and Ryan knew it. In fact, they had taken a huge step backward. Losing Lars Lund had been a terrible blow to their progress. Harvath was working in a ridiculously tight window, and it was all but impossible to make up the ground Lund had covered before the Swedish police stepped in and froze them out.
Nevertheless, she had to give him a chance, carve out a little breathing room that might allow him to make up that lost ground. If anyone could pull it off, it would be Harvath.
What was more, this wasn’t the time for the President to be having second thoughts. Ryan abhorred the loss of life, too. She would have given everything to have prevented one drop of blood from being spilled. But the fact was, America and her allies weren’t spilling the blood. The Russians were.
Coming out publicly wasn’t the answer. McGee was absolutely right. They’d only be tipping their hand to the Russians. Moscow would very likely see it as a sign of weakness, which might even embolden them further. It was better for America to keep its cards to itself and push on. The challenge, though, was in convincing Porter to stay the course.
If not for the liquor in her bloodstream, Ryan might not have had the courage to say what she said next.
“Mr. President, with all due respect, you gave us this mission. You said, and I quote, ‘No matter what the cost, prevent an Article 5.’ ” Drawing his attention to the TV, she said, “This is the cost, and it is terrible. Those are allies and innocents being maimed and killed. But it pales in comparison to what another world war would look like.
“You made the right decision. Now, please, trust us to do our jobs. I promise you, we can do this.”
Porter knew she was right. They had to see this through. It didn’t make it any easier, though, to watch unfold. Nor did it ease his mind about what might come next.
Which brought him to the other item he wanted to discuss. Pausing, he said, “Let’s talk about what we’re going to do regarding Matterhorn.”
CHAPTER 33
* * *
GOTLAND, SWEDEN
SATURDAY
After a few hours’ sleep, Harvath had come downstairs to relieve Haney and monitor radio traffic from the team out at the Sparrman property. So far, not a creature was stirring, though it being a farm, he expected activity to start pretty soon.
The country house they were staying in was an eclectic mix of old and new. The furniture was modern and brightly colored, while everything else looked as if it had been frozen sometime in the late 1800s. It smelled like lavender, and Harvath strongly suspected that the owner had placed sachets of it in hidden locations around the home.
He was sitting at the dining room table, killing time, with a mug of hot coffee and a book, when he heard Jasinski come downstairs.
“What are you doing up?” he asked.
“I kept tossing and turning. I can’t stop thinking about what happened in Norway, and now Rome.”
“I eventually turned the TV off. They just kept repeating the same images. Did you get any sleep at all?”
“A little. Not much,” she replied.
“There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
Jasinski thanked him and joined him at the table a few minutes later with her own mug. “What are you reading?”
Harvath held the book up so she could see it. “Writer, Sailor, Soldier, Spy by Nicholas Reynolds.”
“How is it?”
“It’s fascinating—all about how Ernest Hemingway was a spy for both U.S. and Soviet Intelligence.”
“He was?”
Harvath nodded. “Did you ever read Alexander Foote’s Handbook for Spies?”
“No. Should I?”
“It covers some of the same material regarding Soviet spy networks, but it’s a first-person account. I think it should be required reading for anyone in our business.”
Jasinski looked at him over the rim of her mug. “So, you’re a spy?”
“To be honest with you, Monika, I don’t know exactly what I am.”
She smiled. “I was always told that when someone says, ‘to be honest with you,’ it often means they’re lying.”
Harvath smiled back. “Not this time.”
“If you’re not a spook, what are you, then?”
It was a good question, and one that Harvath had been trying for a while to come up with an answer for. “I don’t think there’s a word for it. At least not one that covers all the aspects of the job.”
“Well, there has to be a word better than consultant. Why don’t you tell me about the person you work for? I understand he and Lars Lund and Carl Pedersen knew each other.”
“They all go way back,” said Harvath. “Cold War guys.”
“What did your boss do?”
“He was an intelligence officer at the CIA. He helped create the Counter Terrorism Center. Brilliant man.”
Finally, she was getting some answers. She decided to keep pushing. “And he now works at the Supreme Allied Command Transformation back in Norfolk?”
Harvath smiled. “No. SACT, and NATO more specifically, is our client. After retiring from the CIA, my boss took everything he had learned and set up his own business.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m still trying to find a better word for it.”
Jasinski rolled her eyes. “Try contracting.”
Harvath shook his head. “That conjures up images of ex special operations personnel doing security details. We do more than that. A lot more.”
“If you had a brochure,” she asked, “what would it say?”
He thought about it for several moments and replied, “Hypothetically, it would say that we offer a suite of products, services, and turnkey solutions comparable to the CIA, but without all the bureaucracy.”