Instead, the American spymaster had decided to use the cocksure Pole to America’s benefit. Over the years, Carlton fed him a steady diet of quality intelligence—“one old friend to another.”
It was stuff that, if the Russians didn’t already know it, they would eventually.
The quality of it, plus his access to such a renowned, well-connected CIA officer, made Kopec a star back in Moscow. That had all been part of Carlton’s plan as well. The more they believed the veracity and reliability of Kopec’s reporting, the easier they were to manipulate. That was how Carlton had used him.
In addition to feeding him a diet of grade-A intel, when it suited the United States, he’d mix in some things that were absolutely false, things he knew the Russians would believe to be true.
The reasons were myriad. Sometimes, the CIA just needed the Russians to be confused. Sometimes, they needed them to act. Sometimes, Carlton just wanted to fuck with them.
When his health began to fail, the Old Man handed the reins over to Harvath. He explained what a valuable asset Kopec had been but allowed Harvath to make up his own mind about what to do with him. Harvath chose door number three as well—using the unwitting Polish intelligence officer in ways even Carlton hadn’t considered. All of that, though, was over now. It had ended with the assault on the cottage on Governors Island.
When it came to intelligence gathering, the Russians ran a brutish operation that somehow succeeded despite itself. They were not thoughtful, meticulous savants. They were rats with terrible eyesight and even worse noses. Luck and bravado, more often than talent or hard work, usually carried the day.
Despite their failings, they had eventually caught wind that Reed Carlton was ill. They wanted Kopec to confirm it for them. So did Harvath.
He wanted them to believe that Carlton was so far gone that he was of no value and no threat to them whatsoever. His hope was that if Kopec reported back to Moscow that Carlton didn’t have much time left, and had lost his mental faculties, they would write him off. The last thing Harvath wanted was for the Russians to uncover his whereabouts and attempt to snatch him. But little did he know that Carlton wasn’t the only person the Russians were interested in.
Playing the distraught former comrade-in-arms, the flabby, white-haired Kopec had kept asking to see his old friend. Once Harvath had felt the time was right, Lydia Ryan had set it up. Never in a million years would he have believed the Russians could set up a snatch operation that quickly. But that was what had happened, and Harvath should have been ready for it.
Kopec had flown up from D.C. on a commercial flight into Portland International Jetport in Maine. A private car service was waiting for him at the airport and had driven him the rest of the way to the island. The car waited for him in the driveway.
When his visit with Carlton was over, he and Harvath chatted, and then Kopec got into the car and drove away, presumably back to the airport.
Harvath had watched him drive off and then returned inside to chat with Lydia. They discussed a couple of items before Harvath saw Lara through the window outside. She had been on a hike and had just gotten back.
Pausing his conversation with Lydia, he had stepped outside to join Lara, and that was when all hell had broken loose.
CHAPTER 11
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Having seen the Russians before he did, Lara had yelled for him to “Run!” but by then it was too late. They quickly surrounded her, and Josef put a gun to her head.
In retrospect, maybe Harvath should have gone for his weapon. Maybe he should have tried to shoot his way out. If they had taken him down, perhaps he could have taken a couple of them with him.
Maybe Lydia and the Corpsman would have joined in. Maybe neighbors would have heard the shots and called the police. Maybe his taking a risk would have saved the others. They were questions that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The one question he didn’t need answered was why he had acted as he did—why hadn’t he pulled his weapon and risked everything?
Years before he had met Lara, there had been someone else, someone as near to perfect as he had ever known. But because of him, she had taken a bullet to