“Mysteriously sent from NATO’s strategic command back in the United States. Even if I did believe that, there’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t like mysteries.”
He looked at her. “Let’s be clear. You volunteered to come along.”
Jasinski laughed. “When the Supreme Allied Commander personally calls you into his office and offers you an assignment, you take it. Any assignment.”
“I can ask him to find me somebody else.”
“Someone as up to speed as I am? Good luck. You’d be starting from square one. I bring more to this than anyone else at SHAPE.”
She was correct, in more ways than she realized.
“So then are you in?” he asked.
Moments passed. He was calling her bluff.
“I’m in,” she finally replied. “But understand something. The only things I like less than mysteries are surprises.”
Harvath smiled. He didn’t like surprises either, but unfortunately, there were many more in store—for both of them.
CHAPTER 8
* * *
OUTSIDE WARSAW, POLAND
The thieves worked quickly, but carefully. Wearing baseball caps and dark clothing, they expertly hid their faces from the closed-circuit television cameras.
Once the merchandise they had stolen from the truck had been transferred to their van, they exited the parking lot and made their getaway.
As far as they could tell, no one had seen them—not even the American soldiers whom they had just robbed. Even so, it only took one person to call in a report to the police. They had to be extra cautious.
In order to avoid authorities, the thieves had decided to stay off the main motorway. They used rural back roads. It took longer, but it was safer. If they were caught, it would cause a major international incident.
The theft of American military equipment on Polish soil would be extremely embarrassing for Poland, especially because this wasn’t the first time it had happened. In advance of a joint readiness drill in the fall, night-vision goggles and other assorted gear worth more than $50,000 U.S. had been nicked from a cargo container at the port of Gdansk.
This time, though, the cargo was much more sophisticated and the implications for the region much more serious. Mere mention of what the U.S. soldiers were allegedly transporting had the potential to destabilize the entire region. The case could even be made that it had the potential to upend the entire geopolitical order.
The team that had been sent in to commit the robbery, though, couldn’t occupy themselves with the big picture. Not now. They had to focus on transporting the cargo to a predetermined location without encountering any members of law enforcement or the military. Something much easier said than done, especially in Poland where cops had a habit of popping up in the most unusual of places, at the worst of times, and often with a keen interest in anyone and everyone, no matter how benign they might appear.
While this was likely due in part to the healthy suspicion endemic in all law enforcement agencies, it was Poland. Only thirty years earlier, it had still been under the yoke of the Soviet police state. Suspicion was woven into the DNA of entire generations of Poles. Patrol officers back then were police academy instructors and even agency commanders now. Echoes of the old days still reverberated across the country.
Not wanting to leave a trail of digital breadcrumbs as they passed from one cell tower to another, the thieves had disassembled their phones and placed them in a signal-blocking pouch. Similarly, they had chosen an older vehicle and had not employed a GPS unit to assist them in their navigation. They had gone “pre-tech.” While the driver drove, the passenger navigated using a red-lensed flashlight and a detailed paper map.
With practiced military experience, the passenger called out upcoming turns and forks in the road, then repeated them for certainty. The driver parroted each direction back.
It took several hours to get to the drop-off location. Once they arrived, the passenger removed a semiautomatic WIST-94 pistol, conducted a press check to confirm a round was chambered, and exited the van.
The night air was cold. The sky was clear and crowded with stars. They were in the countryside. The chilly breeze brought with it the scent of livestock.
After taking a quick look around, the passenger reappeared, and flung open the doors to an old, decrepit barn. The driver advanced the van inside. Waiting for them was a silver Škoda Kodiaq SUV.
After wiping down the van for fingerprints, the driver and passenger unloaded the crates they had stolen from the American soldiers.
The Škoda, seats already folded down, was ready to receive the cargo. As they emptied each crate, they cast it aside.
Once everything was loaded, they covered it with blankets, and the driver pulled the SUV forward, out of the barn. Closing the heavy wooden doors behind him, the passenger got into the vehicle.
“Ready?” the driver asked.
The passenger nodded and, pulling up the onboard GPS, plotted their course for Belarus.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
KALININGRAD
Oleg Tretyakov’s cell phone woke him from a sound sleep. Even in the dark, he knew which one it was. He could tell by the ringtone.
Only a handful of people had the number. But no matter who it was, they had bad news. There was no other reason to be calling that phone at this hour. Reaching over, he depressed the power button, thereby declining the call. Instantly, the phone fell silent.
He picked up his watch and looked at the time. It felt as if he had just gone to sleep.
Throwing back the duvet, he got out of bed. The apartment was cold. He put on his robe, picked up his laptop, and headed for the kitchen.
The timer on the coffee machine had been set for 5:00 a.m. Overriding it, he began the brewing now. He wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep. And whatever problem had required waking him in the middle of the night, he wanted to be as sharp as possible for it.
As the coffee machine gurgled to life, he pulled out a stool, sat down, and powered up his computer.
Russia had the largest Internet population in Europe and the sixth largest in the world. With over 109 million users, monitoring people’s every keystroke was virtually impossible. To ferret out dissidents and spot potential trouble, the Russian government used highly sophisticated algorithms to monitor its citizens. The algorithms searched for thousands upon thousands of keywords and phrases. But despite their sophistication, a lot of traffic was swept up that posed no threat to the Russian state.
A colonel in Russia’s vaunted military intelligence unit, the GRU, he knew how to mask his Internet usage. He didn’t have anything to hide from his own government, but operational security was of paramount importance in his business. Spies within the Russian security apparatus were always a possibility, as were hostile foreign nations hacking from the outside.
Via an anonymous portal controlled by his headquarters near Moscow, he logged on to one of his dummy social media accounts. From there, he leapfrogged over to a benign photographer’s profile, scrolled back through the correct number of posts, and “liked” an obscure photo. With that, his contact would know that he had received the phone call and was online.
Tretyakov stroked the manicured beard that covered his lean face. He had prominent cheekbones, dark receding hair, and dark brown, almost black eyes—gifts from his ancestors who had migrated from the Kalmyk Steppe.