Near Dark (Scot Harvath #20) - Brad Thor Page 0,88

put it back in. I’m going with you.”

“Listen,” Harvath replied, “I promise you that if he’s guilty, I’ll give you a chance to confront him. We both want the same thing. I know what I’m doing. Let me go do it.”

Sølvi wanted to be there. She wanted to watch the entire thing unfold. She understood, though, why Harvath wanted to handle it the way he did. “As soon as you have something, I want to know.”

“Understood,” he said. “And if you see anything at all that doesn’t look right, I want to know. Okay?”

The Norwegian nodded and Harvath signaled for Landsbergis that it was time to go.

Climbing out of the Land Cruiser, Harvath let the Lithuanian lead the way. They had been over this part of the plan several times. Everything had to go perfectly. If any part went wrong, Harvath was screwed.

By just making contact with the VSD Director, he was in direct contradiction of a presidential order. Not only was he told not to make contact, he was also told that under no circumstances was he to lay a hand on Simulik.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he figured. And, as he had told Sølvi, the pin had already been pulled. Full steam ahead.

Once the door into the stairwell was buzzed open, they went up to the second floor. The place was an absolute dump. The VSD Director must have been putting every paycheck, along with any payoffs he was getting from the Russians, into his mortgage, car, and motorcycle payments. He certainly wasn’t spending any money on housekeepers or interior decorators.

Apparently, it was a fixer-upper and Simulik was doing all the fixing himself. Here and there, Harvath could see places where the man had replaced a window or a run of crown molding, the new pieces waiting to be primed and painted.

It wasn’t living in squalor—Harvath had seen worse—but if this was Simulik’s weekend gig, the job was going to take him two lifetimes. He had definitely bitten off more than he could chew.

All things being equal, though, his remodeling problems were the least of his worries. He was about to come face-to-face with the one person even the Grim Reaper didn’t want to see at the other end of a dark alley.

At the end of the dimly lit, stained, carpeted hallway, light spilled from an open doorway. That’s where they were headed.

Harvath had never met Andriejus Simulik, but he had heard about him. Carl didn’t think the guy was worth two bits. Lithuania, in Pedersen’s estimation, deserved much better. That was why he had chosen to work with Landsbergis. Someday, he had hoped that the younger Lithuanian would ascend to the directorship of the VSD. Anyone would be better than Simulik. Landsbergis in his estimation would be exceptional. Just based on the little bit of him Harvath had seen, he agreed.

As they approached Simulik’s study, Landsbergis didn’t break stride. There was an air of resolute determination to him as he led the way. So much so, that Harvath couldn’t help but wonder if Landsbergis had been harboring suspicions about his boss long before this night.

Just before the doorway, the VSD man slowed, composed himself, and then stepped inside. Harvath, right on his six, stepped into the room behind him.

CHAPTER 34

Andriejus Simulik was a thick man who sat behind an even thicker desk. He was still dressed in his suit from his day at the office. His flabby jowls hung over his buttoned collar as well as the sloppy knot of his red silk tie.

His gray hair was longer than it should have been for a civil servant, not to mention a man of his age. Flakes of dandruff peppered the shoulders of his jacket.

Atop the credenza behind him, a martini station was on display. Judging by the half-empty pitcher, cocktail hour was already in full swing.

“Right there,” the VSD Director ordered, pointing his guests as they entered to the two worn, antique velvet chairs in front of his desk.

Once they were seated, he said, “After everything that has happened, you’ve got a lot of nerve coming back to our country. We should have sent a démarche to your ambassador.”

A démarche was the diplomatic community’s equivalent of a harshly worded letter, usually protesting or objecting to something another government had done.

In this case, though, there hadn’t been a démarche. Simulik—likely at the request of the Russians—hadn’t said or written a damn thing. In fact, Harvath was fairly certain that Landsbergis and his director were the