knocked off a piece of the ice from the pail, placed it in a saucepan he had found, and stuck it directly into the fire to boil. After everything he had been through, hot tea would be a welcome luxury.
Setting the hammer down, he examined the rest of the odds and ends in the toolbox. There was a small container of oil, as well as some twine, screws, nails, pliers, duct tape, an adjustable wrench, and a screwdriver with multiple heads. What was missing were many of the tools necessary for the fur trapper to ply his trade—including skis or snowshoes.
By the looks of the cabin, he didn’t skin any game inside. There had to be an outbuilding of some sort. At first light, Harvath would take a look around the property. In the meantime, he continued his tour of the interior.
The one thing he hoped to find, though, eluded him. There was no map, nothing that would tell him where the hell he was. The only printed materials he turned up were two vintage Russian paperbacks and a stack of out-of-date magazines. He tried not to let his disappointment get him down.
Glancing at his watch, he tried to estimate how much more time he had before daybreak. His best guess was that there were a couple of hours left. Once the sun was up, and he had done his quick look around outside, gathering whatever additional supplies there were, he would head out. Staying any longer was out of the question. He had to keep moving. Sitting still meant capture. And capture meant death.
In order to keep moving, though, he needed heavy outerwear. Not only was his coat gone but there was no way his boots were going to be dry by sunrise. The trapper, on the other hand, was fully outfitted.
By all appearances, the man had either been on his way out of the cabin or back in when he sat down by the fireplace and died. He was wearing an anorak, hat, mittens, leggings, and boots, all of them made from reindeer fur.
As respectfully as possible, Harvath lifted the trapper from the chair and moved him to the bed. There, he worked quickly.
While he didn’t mind stripping dead Spetsnaz soldiers, this felt different. It felt wrong somehow.
Be that as it may, he didn’t have a choice. This was about survival—something no longer relevant to the deceased trapper.
After removing the man’s clothes, Harvath solemnly wrapped him in one of the remaining blankets and, after observing a moment of silence, placed him outside.
“Thank you,” he said before closing the door. “I owe you.”
Returning to the fireplace, he saw that his water had come to a boil. Using a thick piece of cloth to protect his hand, he removed the saucepan by its handle and set it aside. Filling an infuser with loose leaves of black tea, he placed it in an enamel mug and poured the water over it.
The tea had a distinctly smoky aroma, which was popular across Russia. It was referred to as Caravan tea.
It was originally imported from China via camel train, and the smokiness was caused by exposure to caravan campfires over the tea’s eighteen-month journey. In the modern era, drying the leaves with smoke created the flavor.
The closest comparison was Chinese Lapsang Souchong—a tea Lara loved, but whose name Harvath had always felt sounded too pretentious for him to say. Literature professors could order Lapsang Souchong. Navy SEALs? Not so much.
That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy drinking it. Whenever Lara made it at home, he was happy to have a cup, especially in fall or winter. The rest of the time, though, he was strictly a coffee guy.
Lara loved to tease him about it, often when they were out with friends. Reluctantly, he would admit to drinking tea, but only the “chai” popular in the Muslim world, and only because it was part of Islamic culture and therefore part of his job when overseas.
As the steam rose from his mug, he closed his eyes and could see Lara standing in his kitchen. She had a row of hand-painted tins lined up on his counter, each with a different kind of tea. Making him close his eyes, she liked to hold different ones under his nose to see if he could guess what they were. The only one he ever nailed consistently was the Lapsang.
Remembering her frustration brought a smile to his face. But it was immediately wiped away by a tidal wave of guilt.