again would he be able to tease her, or hold her, or tell her how much he loved her. She was gone, and it was his fault.
Looking down into his tea, he wished the cup was filled with something stronger—much stronger. Something that would allow him to forget, if only for a little while, what had happened.
“How does a Russian,” he wondered aloud about the dead man, “even in the middle of nowhere, not have a bottle of vodka?”
He waited, but of course the man outside didn’t answer.
Walking over to the cupboard, Harvath attempted to identify the cans of food.
As best he could tell, there were carrots, beets, potatoes, and something that might be pickled cabbage. They offered some nutritional value, but not much. He tried not to think of all the food he had lost in the river.
Instead, he worked on being thankful for what he had—the cabin, a fire, and dry clothes immediately came to mind.
Looking over at the corpse, he also realized that he was thankful to be alive. He wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot, but he was alive. And as long as he was alive, there was hope.
But hope for what? Escape? Revenge? Were those the only things worth living for?
He neither knew nor cared. It was his training and his instinct to survive that were pushing him, dictating what should be done next.
There was a kerosene lamp hanging from one of the rafters. Taking it down, he gave it a shake and sloshed the liquid around inside. Full.
He set it on the table next to the shotgun and walked over to the fireplace for the matches. Small tasks, he reminded himself. Small victories. That was the key to staying positive and staying alive in a survival situation. Everything came down to attitude. With the right attitude, anything was possible.
Adjusting the wick, he lit the lamp and lowered its glass chimney. It was amazing how much light it produced. Out of caution, he decided to drape the blankets over the windows. Even the flame from a lone, flickering candle could be seen from miles away.
Returning to the table, he emptied the box, as well as the shotgun, and examined each of the shells. They were the correct gauge, and all appeared to be in good shape.
After placing them aside, he fieldstripped the shotgun, cleaning and lubricating it as best he could with the materials he had available.
It didn’t require much work. The Baikal’s owner had taken good care of it. Reassembling the weapon, he loaded it and leaned it up against the wall.
Brewing another cup of tea, he dumped a can of potatoes into the saucepan. And as he got to work on breakfast, he tried to keep his mind on being thankful.
Once the sun was up, there was no telling what his day was going to bring.
CHAPTER 23
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WASHINGTON, D.C.
Spies who stayed in the game too long tended to make mistakes. Artur Kopec had been in the game too long.
The old spy was on his last posting. It was a plum assignment for the Agencja Wywiadu, Poland’s foreign intelligence service. Based in the Polish embassy, he enjoyed official cover and diplomatic immunity, which was why Bob McGee had put Nicholas in charge of snatching him.
To his credit, Kopec didn’t fight. He was too old, too tired, and too out of shape to put up any resistance.
To his credit, Nicholas had done the deed himself and had shown up in person. Along with him, of course, were his dogs, as well as several of The Carlton Group’s top operatives.
It was a sign of respect, something Kopec appreciated. Why, though, the little man had gone to such extremes was beyond him. He was old friends with Reed Carlton, quite enamored with Lydia Ryan, and fond of Scot Harvath. A call suggesting any of them needed anything would have brought him to their offices posthaste.
Nicholas, though, had a shockproof bullshit detector. And now that he knew who Kopec was, he knew he was full of it.
Yesterday, when McGee had asked to meet with Nicholas in Lydia’s office, it wasn’t just so they could be more comfortable. In case anything ever happened to her, she had given her former boss and mentor the code to her safe. Inside was an array of sealed envelopes, hard drives, paper files, journals, and binders full of information.
Removing one such binder, McGee had handed it to Nicholas as he explained who the Polish intelligence operative