Near Dark (Scot Harvath #20) - Brad Thor Page 0,72
to know what you told them.”
Lukša took his time gathering his thoughts. Finally, he said, “Even when they were beating me, breaking my bones, I tried to lie. Then the man asking the questions removed a phone and showed me a video.”
“What kind of video?”
“It was a video of me, buying the public transportation tickets I gave you.”
The Russians really had done their research. Not only had they identified Lukša as a potential suspect, they had gone through all of their CCTV footage, looking for corroborating evidence. And they had found it.
“The man asking the questions, what did he look like?”
“Big like the others, but slimmer. He had black hair, like a raven, and a mustache with a small beard that wasn’t connected.
“A Vandyke?” Harvath asked, pantomiming on his own face what one looked like.
Lukša nodded and Harvath encouraged him to continue. “What happened after the man with the black hair showed you the video?”
“He knew my wife was away, visiting her sister in the countryside. If I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he threatened to wait for her to come back and do horrible things to her.”
Harvath now felt even worse for threatening the man’s wife.
“So you told them. Everything.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Lukša asked. “If it had been your wife?”
“They never gave me that choice,” Harvath admitted, seeing an opportunity—through his pain—to hopefully secure more cooperation from the man. “They murdered my wife right in front of me and forced me to watch.”
The truck driver became indignant. “Animals,” he spat. “You see why we hate them? They have always been like this. They are absolute animals.”
Harvath appreciated the man’s fury. He needed the rest of the story, though. “What, specifically, did they ask you, Antanas—and what exactly did you tell them?”
“As you said, I told them everything. Where I picked you up. Where I dropped you off. How many of you there were. What, if any, equipment I could identify. How we communicated. What, if any, discussions of yours I overheard. And then, where I picked you up later that night and where I dropped you off before I left Kaliningrad and crossed back into Lithuania.”
“I assume they also asked how we were even connected in the first place.”
The truck driver nodded. “The man had lots of questions about that. He accused me, repeatedly, of working for the CIA. This was after I had told him everything else about that day. No matter what I said, he still wasn’t satisfied. He started talking about my wife again, explaining in disgusting detail what they were going to do to her. He even threatened to go after my grandchildren. Animals.”
“So, what did you tell him?”
“The truth. That I was working for the VSD.”
“Did you tell him who, at State Security you were working for?”
“Of course,” Lukša replied. “He demanded it. I had no choice.”
“I understand,” Harvath said, and he meant it. “What name did you give him?”
“The only name I had—Filip Landsbergis.”
“Did you tell Landsbergis about what happened?”
The truck driver lowered his eyes. “No.”
“Why not?” asked Harvath.
“Because they told me that if I did, they would kill my entire family and his.”
CHAPTER 27
JULLOUVILLE-LES-PINS
FRANCE
Restaurant La Promenade was a short drive from Paul Aubertin’s house and had a fabulous view. From it, he could look out onto the Granville rocks and the Chausey archipelago.
La Promenade was a wonderful family restaurant with a menu du marché that changed daily. Today, they were offering pan-fried solettes with mashed potatoes, basil, and asparagus. Aubertin ordered a bottle of Sancerre to go along with it and as he basked in the 1930s Belle Epoque setting, he tried to make sense of his project.
True to his word, Trang had allowed him to run everything the way he had wanted, and with no strings attached.
As he had been taught back in Belfast, he had taken his time and had done his research.
He hadn’t planned on getting his hands dirty on this one, at least not right out of the gate, but his trip to Norway had been unavoidable. It was too good a lead, too rich with potential intelligence to leave to anyone else.
He had seen some tough, crusty old bastards in his day, but Carl Pedersen of the Norwegian Intelligence Service took the prize. Jesus, could he withstand a beating. And to be fair, not just a beating, but some of the worst torture Aubertin could put on him. Whoever this Scot Harvath was, he hoped he knew what a loyal friend he’d had in Pedersen.