Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(57)
The first thing he noticed was a sign for a popular attraction called the Hill of Crosses, about twelve kilometers northeast of town. It had popped up when he had been online researching the best route to Vilnius. From what he understood, it was a small hill covered by a vast collection of over 200,000 wooden crosses. Like the Lithuanians themselves, some were plain, some were very ornate. A pilgrimage site dating back to the nineteenth century, it was meant to symbolize resistance to Russian rule.
It was a noble part of the country’s heritage—a solid, passionate part of its DNA. But like the human body, sometimes DNA could become corrupted and that corruption could bring forth incredible sickness, even death.
Heading southeast of town, Harvath made himself and ?iauliai a promise. He already knew what he was going to do to every person he tracked down who was responsible for Carl’s death. In addition to putting each of them in the ground, no matter where in the world he was, he would send ?iauliai a cross to place upon its hill.
In a warped, messed-up way, he’d at least be leaving something behind—a legacy of sorts—his own little family of wooden crosses.
* * *
Like a lot of espionage work, the drive to Vilnius was dull and uneventful. Halfway there, he noticed a farmer’s market, and pulled off the highway.
Lithuania might no longer be part of Russia and the old Soviet Union, but Russia and the old Soviet Union were still very much a part of Lithuania. Neighbors still took an unhealthy interest in what other neighbors were doing, strangers were regarded with suspicion, and gossip spread faster than a fire in dry grass.
Harvath knew that the moment he appeared in the truck driver’s neighborhood, tongues were going to wag. He couldn’t control that. What he could control was what the neighbors were whispering. That was why he didn’t intend to hide his presence. In fact, he wanted to be as obvious as possible about why he was there and who he was going to see.
Just like a private investigator throwing on a utility worker’s reflective vest to get a closer look at a house, Harvath figured—human nature being what it was—that he could run a version of the same ruse; give the neighbors something not to be suspicious of.
He paid for his purchase, returned to the Land Cruiser, and got back on the highway. There was still over an hour left to go.
With the endless road unfolding in front of him, he could sense his jet lag trying to kick in. Rolling down the window, he turned on the radio to help him focus and stay awake.
Sandwiched between countless Europop offerings and local folk music channels, he found one playing American classic rock—on vinyl, no less, with all of the original hisses and pops.
He tuned in just as the needle was dropped on “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones.
If you paid attention to the lyrics, it was an incredibly dark song. If you tuned them out, it was—as Mick Jagger stated—one hell of a hypnotic groove, a samba that doesn’t speed up or slow down—just a sinister constant, which was what Harvath needed at the moment.
And the DJ didn’t let up. After the Stones, there were high-energy songs by The James Gang, Eric Clapton, Jefferson Airplane, Aerosmith, and even KISS. The next hour passed without his eyelids getting any heavier, or his mind wandering to things he didn’t want to think about.
By the time his exit came up, he was looking forward to getting out of the car. The sooner he could question Luk?a, the sooner he could get the answers he had come here for.
Checking his GPS, he found a gas station a bit off the beaten path. There, wearing a baseball cap he had pulled from his bag and keeping his head down to avoid any CCTV cameras, he refilled his tank and bought an energy drink.
He cracked it as he pulled back out into traffic and slowly snaked his way toward the truck driver’s home.
The outskirts of Vilnius were like any other major Baltic city he’d ever visited—industrial, rough, and very poor. This was definitely where the have-nots lived.
Graffiti was everywhere. The streets were dirty. Weeds sprouted up from the cracked sidewalks. Steel shutters and bars over windows spoke to a high level of crime. This was not a good place to live.
As he got closer in, the neighborhoods began to get nicer, but only by a degree. They were still poor, but the properties were better kept. Graffiti was no longer evident. Many homes had modest landscaping. And while some had bars over the windows, many did not.
This was a buffer zone—the working-class ring that surrounded Vilnius’s more affluent neighborhoods and its bustling city center. This was where Mr. and Mrs. Luk?a lived.
Seeing the truck driver’s home now clearly marked on his GPS, Harvath did a wide reconnaissance sweep of the surrounding area. His eyes took in everything.
He wanted to know what businesses there were, if any. What about police or fire stations? If something went wrong and he had to flee on foot, what direction would he run and where might he hide out?
All of it was necessary, pre-approach surveillance. If anything went sideways, no one was coming to save him. He was on his own. The better he knew the lay of the land, the better he could handle any problems that might pop up. And knowing what he knew about field operations, problems were almost a sure thing.
He drove in ever tightening circles, until it was finally time to drive down Luk?a’s street. One pass was all he’d be able to make. Anything more than that was asking for trouble.
Not only would he be given one shot to study the truck driver’s house, but simultaneously he’d need to figure out where to park the Land Cruiser.