Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(20)

“How so?”

“They’re the Goldman Sachs of the terrorism world. They may have lost the land that made up their caliphate, but they didn’t lose their bank accounts. According to an Iraqi Intelligence report, they still have access to over two and a half billion dollars. And, they hate your guts.”

Harvath began to make a mental list. “Okay, they’re contestant number one. Keep going. Who else?”

“As far as terrorism organizations?” Nicholas asked. “Ones that have those kinds of funds and enough reason to want to spend that kind of money on you? That’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

“How about non-terrorism-related organizations?”

“There are various crime organizations around the world that could launch a hundred-million-dollar contract. But to be honest, I can’t think of one you’ve pissed off badly enough to warrant it.”

“So what does that leave us with?”

“You’ve dispatched some exceedingly wealthy bad actors. These people left behind enormous sums of money. If their heirs were smart, they’d be out living it up, but sometimes heirs aren’t smart, they’re vengeful.”

Harvath swirled the ice in his glass and said, “You could probably track that money, though, correct?”

“I’ve already started looking into it.”

“Good.”

“Which brings us to state actors,” said Nicholas. “And there’s one country in particular that jumps right to the top of my list.”

Harvath took a long pull off his Cohiba and then slowly blew the smoke into the air. “Russia,” he stated.

The little man nodded. “They hate you even more than the jihadists.”

“The feeling is mutual. Believe me.”

“It doesn’t make sense, though.”

“Why not?” asked Harvath. “I killed the Russian president’s son.”

“And he was a sociopathic monster. He deserved it—as did the rest of them. But you had been absolutely clear what would happen to President Peshkov if he sent anyone after you. You even put it in writing to him.”

“We’re still watching all of his money, aren’t we?”

“Day and night, but that’s the thing. None of it has moved. Not a ruble, a dollar, a euro, a rand—none of it.”

“Could he have a hundred million we don’t know about?” Harvath asked.

“Is it possible? Sure. Anything’s possible. He’s been stealing from his country for decades. But is it likely? With how hard we’ve worked to uncover every single one of his assets? I just don’t know.”

“What about a cutout? Somebody close to him. An associate of some sort.”

Nicholas thought about it. “Someone willing to put up one hundred million dollars of their own money?”

“It would definitely get his attention. Who knows what kind of favor that would curry?”

“In Russia, doing the president that kind of a service could buy almost anything—a ministry position, mining rights, who knows?”

“This sure feels like the Russians to me,” said Harvath, refilling his glass. “Carl Pedersen helped me to not only halt their Baltic plot, but also to snatch their chief of covert operations for Eastern Europe.”

Nicholas nodded. “Two for one. They got whatever intel they needed to track you down, and they killed Pedersen.”

Harvath felt the pain over his losing friend stab at his heart once more. He took a long sip of bourbon before responding. “Why put out a contract then? Why not just assign it to Russian Intelligence—GRU or FSB—and let them handle it?”

Nicholas shrugged and picked his cigar back up. It had gone out and he needed to relight it. “If,” he said as he activated the lighter, “Peshkov really didn’t want this to look like it came from him, he’d have to carry the charade all the way through—a cutout for the money and a cutout for the killing.”

It was a good point. “Okay, let’s say that’s what happened. How did the Russians know Carl and I were connected, much less that he helped me with everything?”

“Simple. He messed up.”

Harvath shook his head. “No way. Not him.”

Turning his attention away from his Cohiba, Nicholas looked at his friend. “Everybody makes mistakes. I’ve made mine. The Old Man made his. And you’ve definitely made more than your share.”

“I’m not saying he was incapable of making mistakes. I’m just saying I never saw it. I never heard about any, either. The Old Man said Carl was one of the best he’d ever seen. The Norwegians are neighbors with the Russians. They can’t afford mistakes. Not even small ones.”

“Okay. For the sake of argument, let’s say Carl Pedersen was perfect. He never made a mistake. What does that leave you with?”

Harvath swirled the ice in his glass again as he reflected. “Someone else made the mistake. Someone close to him.”

The little man nodded and went back to puffing on his cigar. “If that thread exists, then you need to find it so we can pull on it. Hard.”

Even in its alcohol-soaked state, Harvath’s brain began running through the possibilities, ruling in and out a myriad of different scenarios.

What quickly became clear was that as with any complicated equation, if you were missing data, it made it nearly impossible to solve the problem. Harvath knew Carl Pedersen, but he had no clue who Pedersen trusted and may have talked to. They had kept their relationship tightly compartmentalized—for the safety of them both.