Instantly, the man shook his head.
Harvath drove the open metal contacts of Chase’s Taser into Sparrman’s ribs and depressed the trigger.
Sparrman’s body went rigid as he cried out and wet himself again, the urine running down his left leg and onto the floor.
Harvath pulled the Taser back and gave the man a chance to regain his composure.
“Did you see what happened in Rome, Staffan?”
The man’s head lolled from side to side. There was a fog detainees could slip into. It was the brain disconnecting from the trauma being inflicted on the body. In essence, it was a psychological safe space. Harvath was having none of it.
Drawing his open hand back, he brought it slicing down and slapped Sparrman hard, on the side of his head.
With the duct tape still over his mouth, there was only so much noise he could make.
Raising the radio to his mouth, Harvath said, “Taser the Governor.”
Immediately, Sparrman attempted to cry out and shook his head from side to side.
Moments later, a distant woman’s scream came back across the radio. Hearing it, Sparrman slumped.
“Are there Russians working on your farm?” Harvath asked.
This time, the man answered with the truth. He nodded.
“Are they Spetsnaz?”
Again, Sparrman nodded.
“Who’s in charge?”
It was the first time he had asked something other than a yes or no question. With the tape over his mouth, Sparrman wouldn’t be able to answer.
Reaching under the hood, Harvath found the duct tape and tore it off. It was painful and the Swede flinched.
“Who?” Harvath repeated.
“Help!” Sparrman screamed in Swedish. “Someone, please! Help me! Help!”
Balling his hand into a fist, Harvath drew it back and hit him so hard in the side of his head that it knocked him, and his chair, over onto the floor.
With the man on the floor, stunned, or maybe even unconscious, Harvath took a moment to examine his hand. No matter how careful he was, hitting someone that hard always hurt like hell.
Why didn’t they ever just cooperate? he wondered. Why did they always resist? What was the point? Until they told him what he wanted to know, there was no escape, no getting out. He was in charge. But how bad things would get was totally up to them. Yet they still fought.
That was fine. Eventually, they all broke. All of them.
Pulling the chair back upright, he gave Sparrman a few light slaps through the hood to bring him back around.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Sparrman?” he asked.
Beneath the hood, the man nodded.
Holding up his radio, Harvath said, “Good. Now listen to what is about to happen to your mother.”
With that, there were a series of what sounded like distant slaps followed by more of the same woman’s screams. Though they were allegedly happening kilometers away, Sparrman winced and felt each one personally. Sloane was doing a very convincing acting job.
Setting the radio down, Harvath looked at his prisoner. The tarp he had kindly draped across his shoulders lay on the floor. He was bleeding from beneath his hood. If Harvath had to guess, it was from his mouth or his nose—maybe his ear as well. He was shaking again from the cold. He was in bad shape.
“How much more will you put your poor mother through, Staffan?” he asked.
The man didn’t seem ready to answer. That was fine by Harvath. Inside the shed was a large plastic bucket. Crossing over to it, he picked it up and brought it back over to where Sparrman was seated.
Lifting the man’s feet, he placed them inside the bucket. Then he walked over to the corner and retrieved a large gas can.
Bringing it back over, he unscrewed the cap, and held it under Sparrman’s nose for several seconds. After affixing the spout, he began to pour, sloshing plenty of it over the Swede’s legs and thighs.
Some even splashed against the man’s private parts. It stung like hell, and that’s when Sparrman began screaming.
CHAPTER 44
* * *
“Are you going to cooperate with me?” Harvath asked. “Because if this is just another game, I promise you I will not be happy.”
“I will cooperate,” the man shouted from beneath his hood. “Please. It burns.”
Harvath yanked off his hood. “The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner you can get cleaned up. Who is in charge of the Russians on your farm?”
“His name is Dominik Gashi,” replied Sparrman.
Harvath studied him, watching for any of the tics or subtle facial cues that might indicate that he was lying. “And who is Gashi?”
“Will you let my mother go?”
“It depends on what you tell me. Who is Dominik Gashi?”
“He works at an animal-processing plant here on the island. It’s called FörsPak.”
“What was your involvement in the death of Lars Lund?”
“Nothing,” the man insisted. “He was following me, so I told Dominik. He said he and the Russians would take care of it.”
“Why would you report something like that to Dominik?”
Sparrman didn’t answer.
Harvath held up the Taser. “Listen to me, Staffan. You’re sitting in gas, literally up to your balls. In addition to a shitload of electricity, this Taser produces a real beefy spark—nineteen sparks per second, to be exact. What do you think might happen if I have to Tase you again?”
The Swede looked at the device and then down at his underwear, his legs, and finally his feet, submerged in the bucket of gasoline.
“I report to Dominik as well,” he admitted. “We all do. He is in charge of everything.”
“Define everything.”
“He controls the Russians. They only work on my farm as a cover. I assume they are soldiers of some sort. Then there are the rest of us. Local Swedes, sympathetic to the cause.”
“What cause?” asked Harvath.
“The Russian cause.”
“Communism?”
Sparrman didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Harvath knew that was exactly what he meant.
“How many Russians are on your farm?”
“Eight,” said the Swede.
“Any non-Russians?”
The man shook his head.
“How many locals, sympathetic to your cause or otherwise, are part of your cell?”
“Six,” replied Sparrman.
“I’m going to want their names, occupations, and where they live.”
“Promise me you will let my mother go. I will give you whatever information you want.”
“This isn’t a negotiation, Staffan,” Harvath reminded him. “Every single thing that happens to you is completely within your control. If you cooperate, everything will be fine. If you don’t, then you’ll see what happens. That’s the last time I’m telling you.”
Tucking his Taser in his back pocket, he pulled out his phone, activated the voice memo feature, and, holding it up, said, “Now, let’s have those names.”
Sparrman rattled them off. “Marcus Larsson. He works for one of the Gotland radio stations and lives in Visby. Henrik Erickson is an auto mechanic. He lives and works in Hemse. Ove Ekström lives in Tofta and is unemployed. Ronnie Linderoth is a handyman and lives in Klintehamn. Hasse Lustig works on the ferry and lives outside Visby. And then there’s Magnus Johansson—”