Page 8 of Spymaster

Pedersen rose and they shook hands. “Scot tells me you’re with Polish Military Intelligence. Currently billeted at NATO?”

Jasinski nodded. “The terrorism intelligence cell. I don’t understand. What does any of this have to do with Norway’sforeignintelligence service?”

“Carl is our liaison,” said Harvath.

“No, he isn’t. This is a NATO investigation. We liaise with our local counterparts.”

“Your English is remarkable,” Pedersen interjected, changing the subject. “Barely any hint of an accent.”

“I’m Polish, but was raised in Chicago. We moved back to Krakow when I was twelve.” Noticing a pile of cell phones stacked nearby, she then asked, “Where did those come from? Please don’t say they’re from the dead guy who fled the cabin.”

“I told you she was smart,” said Harvath as he walked over to the table, picked up a bottle of aquavit, and grabbed one of the shot glasses for her.

“I’m not thirsty,” she insisted.

“Drink,” Pedersen urged. “You’ll feel better.”

“Excuse me, NIS, but you don’t have the slightest idea how I—”

Harvath handed her the glass, pulled the cork from the bottle, and filled it. “It wasn’t our fault,” he said. “The Norwegian police had already decided they were going to go in. They had all the cell members in one place. Our being here had no impact on their decision.”

Jasinski leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and exhaled. “They got slaughtered. It was like a war zone. The Norwegians should have been warned.”

“We were,” Pedersen admitted.

She didn’t believe him. “By whom?”

“By me,” replied Harvath.

“You? I don’t understand. I was told we couldn’t discuss the other attacks. What’s going on?”

Setting the bottle back on the table, Harvath pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit.

CHAPTER 7

There were a lot of things he wanted to tell her—such as who he really worked for, why he had been sent, and why he had chosen her for this assignment—but he couldn’t, not yet.

He had studied her file backward and forward. She had come highly recommended and he knew practically everything about her.

Monika Amelia Jasinski. Thirty-one years old. Five-foot-seven. Blonde hair, wide hazel, almost doelike eyes. Her father had been attached to the Polish Trade Commission in Chicago. After high school in Krakow, she had attended Poland’s National Defense University. From there, she entered the Polish Army where she distinguished herself in military intelligence with multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.

When NATO stood up its new Joint Intelligence and Security Division at Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe, or SHAPE, she was tapped for a key position as an investigator in its terrorism intelligence cell. She had more than proven herself worthy.

“What’s this all about?” she asked as Harvath topped off his glass, as well as Pedersen’s.

“You were right,” he replied.

“About what?”

“About all of it. Three attacks. Three dead diplomats. A sniper in Portugal, a car bomb in Spain, a shooter on a motorcycle in Greece. They’re all connected to a larger plot. And now we add Norway.”

Jasinski took a sip of the strong liquor. It was rewarding to hear someone reaffirm that she had correctly connected the dots. But by the same token, she still had no idea who Harvath was really working for.

They had met on a tarmac less than twelve hours ago. Allegedly, he had been sent by the NATO command based in the United States. The Supreme Allied Command Transformation, or SACT, was headquartered in Norfolk, Virginia. Its job was to come up with new, revolutionary concepts to keep NATO on the cutting edge.

As far as she was concerned, SACT was simply a glorified think tank. And sitting there in his jeans and T-shirt, Harvath didn’t strike her as the think tank type. He didn’t look like someone who sat behind a desk all day. He was too fit.

He looked like someone used to being challenged physically. There was a steeliness to him, a seriousness. He was someone who had seen bad things, and who had probably done his share of them as well.

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