Also, no matter how well he performed, there was a lingering distrust based on his past unsavory deeds. He had made the CIA and the NSA look foolish on more than one occasion.
Harvath also suspected that the Old Man might have put a bug in Ryan’s ear about Nicholas. Not that she needed him to tell her anything about the little man’s history. She had already been well aware of him while she was at the Agency.
It was certainly not her intention to agree to large sums of money being spent, only to discover that he was siphoning off pieces of it for himself.
Whenever he had trouble getting approval, he went to Harvath and Harvath in turn went to Ryan. It was a game she didn’t take kindly to—something akin to a child playing both parents. Harvath, though, was always a vocal supporter and, when necessary, defender of Nicholas. He usually got what he wanted and nothing, so far, had gone wrong.
Be that as it may, Ryan maintained a detached, professional trust-but-verify position when it came to the company’s finances. It was one of the leading reasons Harvath was happy to have her sitting in the corner office. He’d go crazy if he had to deal with those kinds of issues every day.
Looking down at his watch, he saw that it was time to get going. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Need anything while I’m out?”
Nicholas studied the notepad on the table in front of him and replied, “Yes. I could use a lot more time, a lot more money, and a lot more luck than either of us deserve.”
“Couldn’t we all,” he replied, standing up and reaching for his jacket. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Walking outside to one of the team’s vehicles, Harvath said a silent prayer that the man he was going to pick up could provide the one thing they needed the most—a miracle.
CHAPTER 55
* * *
“Do you want the good news first? Or the bad news?”
Harvath hated conversations that began this way. “I’ve had a rough couple of days. I could use some good news. Let’s start with that.”
Dr. Matthias Vella was an unassuming man in his fifties—slim, with dark hair and glasses. He buckled his seat belt as they pulled out of the airport. The enormous amount of equipment he had brought with him on the private jet barely fit inside the team’s van.
A PhD in psychiatry and neurochemistry, Vella ran a privately contracted black site. It was located in a windowless, subterranean facility on Malta, nicknamed the Solarium. Their business was top-secret interrogation and high-value detainee detention.
Vella’s specialty was the study of the neurological processes of interrogation. He was particularly interested in what could be done via chemical and biological means to speed it up.
Removing a folder from his briefcase, he opened it and said, “We ran your guy past our Russian friend Viktor Sergun.”
“Did he recognize Gashi?”
“Immediately. But his name isn’t Dominik Gashi and he isn’t a Kosovan refugee. His name is Ivan Kuznetsov. He’s a GRU operative.”
“Anything else?” asked Harvath.
Vella shut the folder. “A little bit of his military background, some of the previous operations he has run for the GRU. Nothing particularly valuable.”
Harvath had been correct. Their prisoner did work for Russian military intelligence. That was an important confirmation. Having a name was a good step forward. He would put Nicholas on it as soon as they arrived back at the compound.
The fact that Sergun could only provide modest background information on Kuznetsov, though, was a disappointment. Harvath knew that the more material Vella had, the better and faster the interrogation would proceed.
“What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news,” said Vella, “is that you’re handing me a subject with multiple bullet wounds, who has maybe been stabilized.”
“So?”
“So remember what happened in Syria?”
Harvath did remember. He had tried to remotely conduct an interrogation using Vella’s techniques. The subject had an underlying heart condition and had died during it.
“What about it?” Harvath asked.
Vella rolled his eyes. He knew Harvath wasn’t this obtuse. “Come on, Scot. You know why we do a full medical workup before we start one of these things. Heart rates spike, adrenal production goes into overdrive, cortisol levels skyrocket. The stress response is just off the charts. Kuznetsov might not be able to handle it.”
“What are you proposing?”
“I’m going to have to dial it back—a lot. At least initially, until I see how much he can handle. In other words, there’s going to be a delay.”
“How much of a delay?” asked Harvath.
“Depending how much of the formula I can administer, it could be days. Maybe a week.”
“That’s not going to work.”
“I’m giving you a worst-case scenario,” replied Vella, who caught himself and said, “Actually, death is the worst-case scenario. What I’m giving you is a potential timeline.”
Harvath knew that a lot of what Vella did was still in its infancy. It wasn’t something that could be widely studied and peer reviewed. It was, in essence, a dark art that wasn’t talked about or shared.
He had brought the man in to speed things up, not to coddle their prisoner and slow things down. But at the end of the day, Vella was here because he was a professional, with a very specific set of skills, which Harvath respected. What’s more, Kuznetsov’s death would certainly bring things to a halt.
“Do what you have to do,” he told the doctor. “But do it as fast as you can. We’re running out of time.”
• • •
When they pulled back into the compound, Harvath called the team out to help Vella unpack and to move all of his equipment into the main building. They then drew up a shift schedule for guarding the property and assisting in the interrogation.
With those tasks complete, he returned to the guesthouse to check on Nicholas and give him the limited dossier that Vella had prepared on their prisoner, Ivan Kuznetsov.
“Did you bring any of the things I asked for?” said Nicholas without turning around.
“They were out of time and money at the store, but I was able to find you a lead,” he replied, setting the folder on his desk.
The little man stopped what he was doing on his computer to take a look at it. “This isn’t a lot to go on.”
“We’ve got a real name. That’s more than we had a half hour ago. See what you can do.”
Saluting, Nicholas turned back to his computer, opened a new screen, and went to work.
Harvath grabbed one of the encrypted laptops the little man had set up and carried it to his room. It was early afternoon back in the States and he thought he would try to reach Lara.
He shot her an email, then plugged his earbuds in and opened the video conferencing program The Carlton Group used.
Moments later, a screen appeared with her face in it. She was at home, in their study, wearing one of the low-cut sweaters he loved. Her long hair was swept to one side. She looked gorgeous.
“Hey,” he said. “What are you up to?”
Lara adjusted her laptop so he could see the TV and the news coverage of the Istanbul bombing.