As far as Tretyakov was concerned, Russia would not only be great again, it would be united again. And for that to happen, every Russian had to do his or her part. Tretyakov was committed to doing his.
Taking the long way around, he crossed the short Honeymoon Bridge where newlyweds came for photos and to fasten a padlock to the railing symbolizing their undying love.
Tretyakov was no romantic. He was a realist and found the practice ridiculous. There had to be thousands of rusting locks along both sides of the bridge. He could only imagine the weight it added. It was a trend he saw repeated throughout cities in Russia and across Europe.
Before World War II, the city of Kaliningrad had been the German city of Königsberg. The Soviets annexed what was left of it in 1945, and gave it its new name in 1946.
The twenty-five-acre island on the other side of Honeymoon Bridge was known as Kneiphof Island. Home to Königsberg Cathedral, it was also the final resting place of philosopher Immanuel Kant.
Tretyakov had always found the island’s walking paths, as well as its quiet cathedral, good places to collect his thoughts. The fact that Kant was entombed there was a bonus. Marxism, the philosophy of the Soviet Union, was built upon Kant’s work, which only made it feel more special.
Crossing the bridge, a sense of calm usually befell him — as if magically, his troubles couldn’t follow him onto the island. Today, though, that wasn’t the case.
With each step he had taken since leaving his office, his problems, like the locks, had only weighed heavier upon him. In addition to wanting a full report, his superiors were considering moving up his timetable. They were concerned over two pieces of intelligence that had recently come in.
One was about an odd meeting that was observed at the United Nations in New York City. It had involved the U.S. Ambassador, as well as the Ambassadors to Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. No one knew precisely what to make of it, until another piece of intelligence had come in.
A small U.S. military convoy, leaving Poland for the very same Baltic nations, had been robbed. Allegedly, the cargo that had been stolen included upgrade kits for land-based, incredibly hard to defeat Gryphon cruise missiles. These were the same missiles that had been banned under a previous treaty between Russia and the United States. None of them should have existed, much less have been in Europe.
Even more troubling was the fact that Gryphon missiles were capable of carrying nuclear warheads. According to one of their Polish spies, a covert Polish intelligence team had been tasked with trying to recover the stolen upgrade kits. If the intelligence was accurate, and he had no reason to doubt it, the missiles represented a significant obstacle to the invasion. It was no wonder his superiors were nervous. Their entire calculus could very well be in jeopardy.
But if they were thinking of beating the upgraded missiles to the battlefield by accelerating his timetable, such a move wasn’t without risk. It was when one sped up operations that mistakes happened — often deadly mistakes — and he felt certain that would be the case here. It was a recipe for potential disaster.
Nevertheless, he was a solider. It was his job to follow orders, not question them — no matter how poorly conceived he believed them to be. If headquarters wanted to accelerate the timeline, he would do what they commanded.
There would be consequences, though, of that he was sure. And he had a pretty good idea of where some of the worst might take place.
Removing his encrypted cell phone, he began to compose a message. The cell in Sweden needed to be warned.
CHAPTER 18
The prospect of flying back to Scandinavia, especially on another military transport, wasn’t very appealing to Jasinski. On the plus side, though, at least the flight would be short, less than two hours.
After thanking Nicholas for lunch, Harvath had driven her back to SHAPE. On the way, she had asked again why they were going to Gotland. Harvath told her he would explain once they were in the air. Dropping her at the front gate, he instructed her to pack a bag and meet him at Brussels South Airport at 7:00 p.m.
When she arrived at the address he had given her, she was shown through the lobby of a fixed-base operator and escorted outside. There, standing on the tarmac beside a sleek white business jet with gray pinstriping, was Harvath. He had his back to her and was sipping from a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee as he admired the aircraft.
“Nice ride,” she shouted, loud enough to be heard over a commercial aircraft taking off nearby. “Gulfstream G650?”
Harvath was impressed. “G650-ER,” he clarified, turning to greet her. “Extended-range package. Seven thousand five hundred nautical miles. Sleeps ten, can travel at Mach.90, has a kick-ass espresso maker and comes with cup holders and free Wi-Fi.”
“How’d you swing this?”
“Like I said — if it flies, floats, or fights — I’m your guy.”
“Apparently,” Jasinski agreed, as the copilot approached, politely took her bag, and added it to a stack of much bigger luggage near the tail. Much of it was hard-sided, plastic Storm cases. She could only imagine what was inside. She doubted they were full of toothpaste, razorblades, and clean underwear.
Looking back at Harvath, she asked, “How long are we planning on being away?”
“Those belong to the rest of the team.”
“Team?”
“They’re already on board. I’ll introduce you.”
Harvath led the way up the airstairs and into the cabin of the G650-ER. The first thing she noticed was how luxurious it was. The white leather seats were trimmed with gray piping and had individual controls for heating and cooling. The tables were crafted from highly polished Makassar ebony veneers. Plush gray carpeting with a swirling black design ran end to end. The fixtures were polished nickel. It even had the new-plane smell.
Scattered throughout the cabin, in various stages of shoes off, feet up relaxation, were four men and one woman who made up the “team.”
Leaning in close to her, Harvath confided, “They still refuse to wear nametags so I’m probably going to get a few of these wrong.” Straightening up, he pointed as he worked his way down the aisle and said, “You’ve already met Gage, Morrison, and Nicholas, who are holding down the fort back at HQ, so let me introduce the rest of the team. Everyone, this is Monika Jasinski. Monika, this is, Gimpy, Grumpy, Dopey, Drippy, and Sparkle.”
Each of the passengers held up a middle finger in response. Some of them held up two.
“Be especially nice to Sparkle,” Harvath added. “The entire cabin — lights, music, temperature — runs on an app and she’s the only one who has been able to figure it out.”
Rolling her eyes, the woman Harvath had identified as Sparkle stood up, came forward, and introduced herself. “Nice to meet you, Monika, I’m Sloane Ashby.”
She was a very attractive woman. In her late twenties, she had blond hair, smoky gray eyes, and distinctly high cheekbones.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Monika said, shaking Sloane’s hand.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet, Harvath’s superpower is being a smartass.”
“It’s pronounced jackass!” someone yelled from the back.
Sloane chuckled and continued. “So, like I said, I’m Sloane. Let me introduce you to everyone else.”
Gesturing with her hands as if she was giving an airplane safety demonstration, she pointed to each team member and gave their real name and background as they walked down the aisle. Each stood and politely shook her hand as they were introduced.