Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(10)

Harvath’s frustration was growing. “What kind of tip?”

“Carl Pedersen was murdered.”





CHAPTER 5


It was like being hit by a truck. Carl Pedersen was not only Harvath’s best intelligence contact in Scandinavia, but he had also been a friend. The Old Man had introduced them and, despite their age difference, they had become close. Pedersen’s loss was devastating, especially on the heels of losing his wife and two dear friends.

“When did it happen?”

“Four days ago,” Chase replied. “Maybe more. His body wasn’t discovered until today. A neighbor found him. At his country house.”

“How was he killed?”

“From what the Norwegians say, it wasn’t pretty. He had been tied up and tortured. Then he was shot, once, in the chest. The round went straight through his heart.”

Not one prone to showing his cards—particularly his emotional ones—Harvath blanched. That was a shitty way to go, especially for someone like Pedersen.

He had been a good man. Old-school. Willing to bend and even break a few rules here and there if it meant saving lives. He had been a spy’s spy. There weren’t a lot like him at the Norwegian Intelligence Service. Sharing a border with Russia—and all the malign activity therein—Norway had been lucky to have him. He wouldn’t be easy to replace.

It sounded like a professional job. What didn’t make sense, though, was why the Norwegians had notified them. “What prompted the call?” he asked. “Why reach out to us?”

Reluctant to let the other shoe drop, Chase didn’t respond. He knew what a blow it was going to be.

Piloting the van toward Naval Air Station Key West, Sloane Ashby was the team’s lone female operative and also another one of its youngest. Ex-Army, she had been recruited by the Old Man as well. She was not only attractive, but she could also be quite funny. Now, though, wasn’t a time for jokes. It was time to tear the Band-Aid off and give it to Harvath straight.

“The working theory at NIS is that Pedersen was tortured in order to get access to his phone and laptop.”

Harvath caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Why? What for?”

“According to their computer forensics people, the killer was building a dossier.”

“On what?”

“Not on what. On who.”

As a pair of police cars went racing past them, it all came crashing down on him. “Me?”

Haney put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s why the Norwegians reached out. They wanted to warn you. The killer accessed Pedersen’s phone, his laptop, and the secure NIS database. Every recent search appears to be related to you.”

Harvath didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. Not because of him. Not another murder.

It was like having the truck that had just hit you, back up, and do it all over again. He needed another drink—a big one. Probably more than one.

Turning his gaze to the body bag, he managed, “So that’s the guy.”

“We think so, but there’s not much to go on. The killer didn’t leave any evidence at the scene in Norway.”

It had to be him, Harvath thought. He didn’t believe in coincidences.

“How did you know he was going to be here, tonight, on Key West?”

“We didn’t,” said Haney.

“Then how did you find me?”

“When you didn’t pick up your phone, we were worried it might already be too late.”

“I’ve had it turned off. It’s in a drawer back in—”

“Back in your room,” Haney said, interrupting him. “Yeah, we know. We found it. That’s the first place we hit when we got here.”

Harvath knew that the phone didn’t need to be turned on for it to be tracked.

“In order to get word to you,” Haney continued, “we asked Key West PD to go by and do a wellness check. They did, but your room was empty. Eventually, they tracked down the property manager, who said he’d seen you earlier and everything appeared fine. The cops left a note in your room, as well as with the property manager to call Uncle Paul.”

Call Uncle Paul was a distress code. Had Harvath received that message, he would have known that he was in danger and should make contact as quickly as possible.

“How did you figure out to come by the bar?” he asked. “I’ve never brought my phone there and I always pay cash.”

Haney withdrew the receipt upon which the bartender had written her name and cell number and handed it to Harvath. “Her phone wasn’t turned on either.”

“Probably because she was tending bar,” said Harvath.

“We didn’t know what to think. Because it was off, we couldn’t call, but we could track it. Once we got a lock, we headed straight over.”

Harvath had thought about throwing the woman’s number away, but in the end had hung on to it. He wasn’t planning on sleeping with her. At least he hadn’t thought he was. But in all of his despair and loneliness, there was part of him that craved the touch of another human being.

That phone number had saved his life. And even though The Carlton Group had its own private jet, they must have moved heaven and earth to get to him as fast as they had. A few seconds later and he would have been dead. At the very least, he owed his teammates a thank-you.