“Because you’re going to need to look the part.”
“What part?”
“Don’t worry, just give me your sizes,” he said, getting out of the minivan.
As he did, he handed Haney his phone back, instructed him to put the same question to Jasinski, and have her text back the information.
He needed to move fast. At best, the vehicles were fifteen minutes outside of town.
CHAPTER 37
* * *
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Sloane, who had parked and was now in back of the minivan. “What did you do? Pop into a Whores-R-Us and ask for the sluttiest stuff they had in my size?”
“It’s a little black dress,” Harvath replied. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”
“You got the little part right. But this isn’t a dress. It’s a cocktail napkin with straps.”
“You’re going to look great.”
Sloane gave him the finger and then, turning it upside down, signaled him to face the other direction. Politely, he obliged her.
He had made it out of the boutique with only moments to spare. After he had tossed the bags in the minivan, it was less than a minute before Sparrman drove past, with Sloane several car lengths behind. Behind her were the other two vehicles filled with Spetsnaz operatives. As they passed, Harvath could see that’s what they were. They were hard, switched-on fighters.
Harvath had consumed enough alcohol with enough operators to know that they didn’t become any less aggressive when they were out drinking. Some became even more so. He hoped, though, that after a few rounds, they’d loosen up; relax a little. All he needed was a sliver of daylight, for the figurative door to be opened just a crack, and he would exploit the hell out of it.
“Okay. You can turn back around,” Sloane said.
The dress looked amazing—as if it had been designed just for her. “Not bad.”
“Fuck you, not bad. I’m sure I look fantastic,” she replied from the backseat of the minivan.
They had driven into Visby’s walled Old Town and watched as Sparrman and his crew parked their vehicles and entered an Irish-themed sports bar and restaurant called O’Learys. It was a chain, with outlets all across Sweden.
The entrance was via a large patio, which had a retractable roof and was dotted with seating areas and portable gas heaters. Inside was a long bar with additional chairs and tables. Televisions were mounted everywhere. Even on the patio, customers could catch a range of matches happening around the world—all of which appeared to be either rugby or soccer.
Haney had taken up a position across the street to keep an eye on O’Learys, while Harvath had parked the minivan around the corner and linked up with Sloane.
“I bet at least half the women in there are going to be wearing jeans,” she complained.
“Then that’s just going to make your job all the easier,” he replied.
“Next time you tell me to pack a bag, I’m going to make sure I pack my own dress. And shoes.”
Pulling out a shoebox from the shopping bag he had handed her, she removed the lid and looked inside. “Hooker heels?” she asked, holding up one of the shoes so he could see its tall, Lucite heel. “You really did go to Whores-R-Us. You couldn’t have bought me a nice pair of thigh-high boots?”
“They didn’t have any in your size.”
“How am I supposed to operate in these?”
“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Besides, the only operating you’re supposed to be doing is capturing Sparrman’s attention.”
“How about you come in with me, and I give you a full-on ass-kicking for this costume? Think that might get his attention?”
Harvath grinned. “Probably, but not in the way we’d like.”
“Consider yourself lucky then, because it wouldn’t have been pretty. I mean, I would have been pretty, but you would have ended up curled in a ball and crying on the floor of the ladies’ room.”
Drawing an oval around his face with his index finger, he encouraged her to put her makeup on.
Turning the bag upside down and dumping the remaining items on the seat, she looked at everything and said, “Don’t ever go clothes or makeup shopping for Lara. Stick to jewelry, okay? Because you are beyond hopeless.”
He shook his head.
Opening a metal tube, she extended a bright lipstick called Dynamite Red. “Subtle. Can’t wait to see the eye shadow.”
The eye shadow, as it turned out, was not half bad. The lipstick, too, looked great on her.
Finishing up her makeup, she did her hair, and then asked Harvath, “How do I look?”
“Terrific,” he replied, and he meant it. As a rule, he ignored her looks and focused on her brains and her skills—which were also formidable. The truth was, though, that she was hot. And the way she was put together now, she was super hot. “Dressed to kill.”
“Or at least capture, right?”
Harvath laughed. “Correct. Let’s roll.”
Opening the door, he waited for her to slip her heels on and then helped her out. “Don’t rush anything, okay? Take your time. Play hard to get. The more he drinks, the better off we’ll be.”
“Trust me,” she replied. “I know what I’m doing.”
Of course she did, but Harvath was a detail guy. He needed to make sure she understood how he wanted the operation to unfold. That said, he knew that the minute she walked into that bar, anything could happen.
“Just be careful,” he said. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks. I’ll be close by if you need me.”
Holding out her hand, she waited for him to count off a stack of currency. Once he had, she grabbed her cell phone and headed for O’Learys. She really did look fantastic.
“You’d better not be looking at my ass,” she warned, without turning around.
Harvath laughed and watched until she disappeared around the corner. Moments later, Haney came and joined him.
“She’s inside,” he stated. “Am I good to go?”
Harvath nodded and handed him the keys to the minivan. “Get back here as soon as you can. Jasinski’s bag is on the backseat.”
“Got it,” said Haney. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he fired up the minivan, put it in gear, and headed back to the rental house.
Harvath decided to go check out the three vehicles Sparrman and his crew had driven into town from the farm. They were parked about a half block up and he began walking.
He had only made it a quarter of the way when he saw a marked police car coming down the cobbled street, and he ducked into an archway.
The vehicle was moving slowly, almost purposefully. He couldn’t tell if the cop was looking for something specific, or if he was just making his rounds. Receding further into the darkness, Harvath pressed himself up flat against the wall.
As the car neared, Harvath recognized the officer. He was one of the two uniformed cops who had met the plane last night—the taller one. Harvath paused for a moment, trying to recall the man’s name. Then it came to him—Johansson.
Visby was a small town. Maybe Johansson was just on patrol and they had ended up in the same place at the same time. That wouldn’t have been so unusual. Harvath was tempted to write it off as a coincidence.