red-hot coat hangers rip your brain out through your eyes. There was no pain he had ever experienced anywhere near it. That was only the warm-up, though.
His interrogator was a Russian in his late fifties who had introduced himself simply as Josef. Tall and fit, Josef had gray hair that was cut in a trendy, long-on-top, skin-tight-fade-on-the-sides style that was more appropriate for a man in his twenties. He looked like a douchebag, and Harvath had told him so.
What made the insult even funnier was that despite his impressive command of English, Josef was unfamiliar with the term. Harvath had to explain it to him, and did so in such a way that the Spetsnaz operatives understood it as well.
When Josef finally clicked on the equivalent word in Russian and mumbled it aloud, his men chuckled. So did Harvath. It was, without a doubt, a terrible haircut.
For a moment, Josef appeared to have a sense of humor and laughed right along with everyone else. Nothing about his demeanor suggested what was about to happen next.
In a flash, the Russian pulled out an electrical cord and started beating Harvath with it. The blows fell again and again, lashing his chest and shoulders, stomach and thighs. Secured to a chair, he had no way to fend off the painful attack.
It was meant to show dominance and sow fear. Josef was making it perfectly clear who was in charge and who wasn’t. He intended to break his captive, by any means necessary.
For his part, Harvath had already made up his mind back in New Hampshire that he was going to kill Josef. The only question was how badly he would make him suffer first. The beating with the cord only strengthened his resolve and lengthened the pain he would make the Russian endure.
And that went double for whoever, higher up the chain, had tasked Josef. Harvath didn’t care if the trail led right to the President of Russia himself. Anyone and everyone involved would pay, dearly.
Over the last three days, Harvath hadn’t had much time to piece things together. Most of the time, he had been drugged. When he wasn’t drugged, he was being beaten and interrogated. They had even waterboarded him.
It was a tactic he had used on prisoners himself. He knew how effective it was. Even though he had undergone it in training, it was still a horrible procedure to be on the receiving end of.
Upon being placed inside the private jet, he had hoped that part of the nightmare was over. But when he saw the four-liter water jugs stacked in the galley, he knew that it had only just begun.
The flight to what he now knew had been Murmansk was brutal. He had blacked out several times. And, on at least one occasion, he had lost more than just consciousness. Judging by the pads stuck to his chest, the automated external defibrillator, and the vial of epinephrine nearby, he had flatlined.
His memories were fuzzy. What he remembered best was how it had all started.
Josef and his men had shown up at the cottage in New Hampshire out of the blue. Harvath had gone there with Lara to visit Reed Carlton, whom he affectionately referred to as the “Old Man.”
He was also there to wrap up some loose business ends with Lydia, one of which involved a meeting with a diplomat from the Polish embassy in D.C.
Artur Kopec was a double agent, working for his own country’s foreign intelligence service as well as the Russians. He was a drunk, nearing the end of his career, who had lied, cheated, manipulated, and schemed to get one final, plum posting.
Early on, he had actually been a capable intelligence officer. But as his star had risen, so, too, had his opportunities for corruption. Unfortunately for him, and for Poland, he had chosen self-enrichment over patriotism.
He and Reed Carlton went way back—back to the days of the Cold War. They had undertaken great risks together, bled together, and buried friends together, all in the name of defeating Communism and advancing the cause of freedom.
But once Carlton learned that his old ally had been co-opted, he was left with only three choices: kill him, report him, or use him. He opted for door number three.
Kopec was so sure of himself and so confident in his tradecraft that he believed no one would ever find out he was working for the Russians on the side. He might have been able to fool everybody else, but he