Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(41)

“If that was someone’s goal, that means they knew what kind of equipment he operated. Do you know if he had any enemies?”

“He wasn’t much of a talker.”

“What if,” Nicholas responded, scrolling back through the photos, “this wasn’t about settling a score?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s say this wasn’t about some angry border guards not getting their monthly payoff. What if the Russians did exactly what we were talking about? What if they went back and reviewed all their CCTV footage from ports of entry, made a list, and Luk?a was on it? What if they then decided to pay him a visit? And during that visit, the Russians decided they’ve got the right guy and put the screws—or in this case—the hammer to him?”

“And he gives up that he was working for Lithuanian Intelligence?”

Nicholas shook his head. “It wouldn’t be a straight line, they understand proper tradecraft, there’d be cutouts along the way. But the Russians are smart—smart enough to reverse engineer it. All Luk?a would have had to do was admit that he picked up a team of Americans and they’d be off to the races.”

He had a point. A good one. Once the Russians started pulling on that thread, it wasn’t impossible to believe that they could unravel the entire thing—right up to Landsbergis at Lithuania’s State Security Department.

“I need to get to Vilnius,” said Harvath.

“Lithuania? Are you kidding me?” Nicholas replied. “When you very well may have a one-hundred-million-dollar bounty on your head? Are you insane? No way.”

“I want to speak to Landsbergis myself. I want to look him in the face.”

“Negative. We can send the Ghost.”

The Ghost was a deep-cover operative who had been brought over to The Carlton Group from CIA. His real name was Steve Kost. Because his last name rhymed perfectly with “ghost,” the call sign had practically selected itself.

“And what do you expect me to do?” asked Harvath.

Nicholas threw up his hands. “I don’t know. Stay here? Survive? Take up a hobby. I don’t really care. All I know is that you’re not leaving.”

Harvath was nothing if not obstinate. The surest way to get him to do something was to tell him he couldn’t. Nicholas knew that, yet he had still dropped the hammer on him.

“Listen,” said Harvath, “if you needed to insert someone over there for a long-term reconnaissance, or to build an extensive human network, Kost would be one of the top people on my list. Sending him over to do an interrogation? That’s like asking Rembrandt to do welding.”

Nicholas chuckled. “I’m writing that down. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone pay Kost that high a compliment.”

“Come on, Nick. You know I’m right. He’s not an interrogator. That’s not what he does.”

“Maybe not, but he’s good at reading people.”

“What he’s good at is building rapport. All of his assets would go to the ends of the earth for him. They love the guy. And they love him because they know he has their back. That’s not what this is about. If Landsbergis did give up Pedersen to the Russians, whoever confronts him is going to have to be ready to do anything to pry that information out of him.”

The little man thought for a moment and said, “I’ll send Preisler with him.”

“Wait,” said Harvath, recognizing the name. “Peter Preisler is an Agency guy. Ground Branch. He was part of McGee’s protective detail when I was at their safe house.”

“He’s with us now.”

Nicholas might have been better at running The Carlton Group than he himself believed. Harvath had taken to Preisler. Not only was he squared away with an impressive Special Operations pedigree, but he had also been one hell of a cook. He had taken responsibility for most of the meals while they had been holed up on the Eastern Shore.

“You’re going to put something this big on a guy you just hired?”

“Fine,” Nicholas responded, “I’ll send Johnson.”

Harvath’s eyes went wide. “You send Kenneth Johnson and he’ll kill him. I guarantee it.”

“You’re being overdramatic. We haven’t had a problem with Johnson for some time.”

“No? How about Beirut?”

“That was an accident.”

“Okay,” said Harvath. “What about Bangkok?”

“Also an accident.”

“And Auckland?”

Nicholas paused. “Auckland,” he conceded, “wasn’t an accident. Not even close.”

“Listen, I get it. Everybody loves Johnson. But you have to let him do what he does best. And it isn’t interrogations. They’re like heart surgery. They’re delicate and can get very messy very quickly.”

“Then who? Haney? Staelin? Who am I supposed to send?”

“Me,” Harvath declared. “If Landsbergis gave up Carl to the Russians, the moment he sees me, it’ll be written all over his face. I won’t even need to interrogate him.”

Nicholas had heard Harvath go on ad nauseam about microexpressions, the barely perceptible tells subjects gave off when they were lying and under stress. The U.S. Secret Service, as well as Harvath, swore by them.