Page 72 of Spymaster

It was the first time he had asked something other than a yes or no question. With the tape over his mouth, Sparrman wouldn’t be able to answer.

Reaching under the hood, Harvath found the duct tape and tore it off. It was painful and the Swede flinched.

“Who?” Harvath repeated.

“Help!” Sparrman screamed in Swedish. “Someone, please! Help me! Help!”

Balling his hand into a fist, Harvath drew it back and hit him so hard in the side of his head that it knocked him, and his chair, over onto the floor.

With the man on the floor, stunned, or maybe even unconscious, Harvath took a moment to examine his hand. No matter how careful he was, hitting someone that hard always hurt like hell.

Why didn’t they ever just cooperate?he wondered.Why did they always resist? What was the point?Until they told him what he wanted to know, there was no escape, no getting out. He was in charge. But how bad things would get was totally up to them. Yet they still fought.

That was fine. Eventually, they all broke.All of them.

Pulling the chair back upright, he gave Sparrman a few light slaps through the hood to bring him back around.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Sparrman?” he asked.

Beneath the hood, the man nodded.

Holding up his radio, Harvath said, “Good. Now listen to what is about to happen to your mother.”

With that, there were a series of what sounded like distant slaps followed by more of the same woman’s screams. Though they were allegedly happening kilometers away, Sparrman winced and felt each one personally. Sloane was doing a very convincing acting job.

Setting the radio down, Harvath looked at his prisoner. The tarp he had kindly draped across his shoulders lay on the floor. He was bleeding from beneath his hood. If Harvath had to guess, it was from his mouth or his nose—maybe his ear as well. He was shaking again from the cold. He was in bad shape.

“How much more will you put your poor mother through, Staffan?” he asked.

The man didn’t seem ready to answer. That was fine by Harvath. Inside the shed was a large plastic bucket. Crossing over to it, he picked it up and brought it back over to where Sparrman was seated.

Lifting the man’s feet, he placed them inside the bucket. Then he walked over to the corner and retrieved a large gas can.

Bringing it back over, he unscrewed the cap, and held it under Sparrman’s nose for several seconds. After affixing the spout, he began to pour, sloshing plenty of it over the Swede’s legs and thighs.

Some even splashed against the man’s private parts. It stung like hell, and that’s when Sparrman began screaming.

CHAPTER 44

“Are you going to cooperate with me?” Harvath asked. “Because if this is just another game, I promise you I will not be happy.”

“I will cooperate,” the man shouted from beneath his hood. “Please. It burns.”

Harvath yanked off his hood. “The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner you can get cleaned up. Who is in charge of the Russians on your farm?”

“His name is Dominik Gashi,” replied Sparrman.

Harvath studied him, watching for any of the tics or subtle facial cues that might indicate that he was lying. “And who is Gashi?”

“Will you let my mother go?”

“It depends on what you tell me. Who is Dominik Gashi?”

“He works at an animal-processing plant here on the island. It’s called FörsPak.”

“What was your involvement in the death of Lars Lund?”

“Nothing,” the man insisted. “He was following me, so I told Dominik. He said he and the Russians would take care of it.”