Foreign Agent (18 page)

CHAPTER 40

H
arvath didn’t want to believe her, but he knew Ryan wasn’t kidding. “Tell me what happened,” he said as he opened the computer’s browser and surfed to one of the cable news sites.

“Suicide bomber,” the CIA Deputy Director replied. “She leapt the fence on Pennsylvania Avenue and—”

“Wait,” he interrupted. “
She?
It was a female bomber?”

“Yes. She got all the way across the north lawn and detonated on the driveway just outside the north portico.”

“How the hell did she get that far?”

“Somebody screwed up,” Ryan admitted.

“You’re damn right somebody screwed up. Anyone hurt?”

“So far there are three fatalities. All uniformed Secret Service. They were moving in to take her down when she clacked off. We can’t even estimate the number of injured yet.”

“Goddamn it,” Harvath replied. He had been recruited to the Secret Service from the SEALs. He had worked presidential protection. “Was the President there? Is he all right?”

“He was in the West Wing when it happened. They evacuated him to the bunker. He wasn’t harmed. They’re deciding whether to remain in place or move him to the COG facility.”

COG stood for Continuity of Government. The facility Ryan was referring to was a secure fallback location for the President during times of attack or national emergency.

“How long ago did this happen?” he asked.

“Five minutes.”

Harvath could now see a live feed streaming from Washington. Herman, Farber, and Bosch gathered around him.

“Mein Gott,”
Herman exclaimed.
My God
.

They stared, stunned, as the camera panned across the charred iconic façade of the White House.

“That’s not all,” Ryan added. “Seconds before she got to the driveway and detonated, she unfurled a long black banner.”

“Let me guess. With white Arabic writing on it?”

“Yup. Never slowed down for a second, just kept running.”

Harvath took a breath. “Have you confirmed this as an ISIS attack?”

“Publically? No. Internally? Absolutely.”

“Do you think this is connected to our guy?” he asked.

“Pitchfork?” the Deputy Director replied. “We don’t know, but you can add this to your list of questions to ask his handler.”

“So it’s still a go?”

“One hundred percent. It’s even more important now. Do whatever you need to do. Understood?”

“Understood,” Harvath replied, as Lydia Ryan disconnected the call.

• • •

Harvath knew it was a serious, maybe even deadly mistake to let his anger get the best of him. Nevertheless, he fumed.

ISIS had struck inside Washington and now even more Americans were dead.

They had hit one of the greatest symbols of the United States. It was a target they had been threatening, and lusting after, for years. Now they had actually done it.

Harvath’s anger was tinged with shock. They were getting exponentially better. Each attack was more dramatic than the last. He didn’t have the proof yet, but he knew the Russians were involved with this one too.

First Turkey and now D.C. Harvath didn’t want to think about what
might be next. It was all the more reason to grab Sergun and get him talking ASAP.

The attack in D.C., though, made Harvath doubt his plan. Every TV in Berlin—actually, every TV in the world—was filled with the images of what had happened at the White House. Everyone was aware of it now.

That didn’t mean that terrorists around the world would take the night off, but a public kidnapping of a Russian military attaché in Germany would not come off as a coincidence.

It would get hyped even more than if it happened just by itself. The media thrived on fear. He could hear it now, “First Antalya, then D.C., now Berlin. What political target will the terrorists strike next?”

Harvath was beginning to think that perhaps the entire plan should be scrapped. Instead, just slip into Sergun’s apartment, grab him in the dark, and carry him out. Screw the witnesses. Let the Russians think whatever they wanted. It wouldn’t make any difference. Sergun would be gone.

Harvath discussed it with Herman. “What do you think?”

The man shrugged. “It’s your operation.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’re right.”

Harvath waited, but his friend didn’t say anything further. “If we snatch him from his apartment, the Russians are going to suspect Germany was behind it.”

Herman shrugged again. “Not my problem.”

Harvath had seen this attitude growing across Europe. So many people struck him as unhappy with the way things were going. And while some were pushing for massive changes to straighten things out, others had completely given up, resigning themselves to the idea that their nation’s best days were in the past.

Harvath refused to ever allow himself to think like that. As long as you could fight, you were in the fight, and that meant the fight wasn’t over. Nothing was impossible.

To a certain degree, it was easier for him to feel that way. America wasn’t Germany. It wasn’t Europe either. Despite the tragic blows the United States had suffered, things were different. How long they would remain that way was the question.

With each attack, there was a call for more security. What had happened at the White House was going to shake Americans to the core.

Harvath knew President Porter, though. His instinct wouldn’t be to batten down the hatches, at least not at the expense of people’s individual freedom. He would want to reassure the American people, to bolster their self-confidence, and instill in them a sense of control over their own lives. Government wasn’t the answer and he wouldn’t pretend it was.

Even so, there would be a call for the President to do something. That was how people reacted to situations that frightened them.
Something must be done
. Doing something was a panacea.

It didn’t matter if the most popular thing being proposed wouldn’t have stopped the attack in the first place, many would still demand that it be done.
Do something
,
anything
. It was all about people
feeling
safer.

Harvath was reminded of a quote attributed to Ben Franklin—
Those who would trade a little liberty for a little added security, deserve neither and will lose both
.

Maybe the President would be able to reassure America. Maybe not. What Harvath did know was that if they didn’t get to the bottom of these attacks and stop another one from happening, the clamor to do something would only get louder, and what they would call for being done would be even more dramatic.

Too many people had died, too much had already been lost. Enough was enough.

Harvath looked at Herman. He had made up his mind.

CHAPTER 41

F
RIDAY EVENING

W
hen Viktor Sergun entered his apartment, the first thing he noticed was that his electricity wasn’t working.

Old East German Building,
he thought to himself.
Old wiring
. He was Russian. He was used to things not working.

He made his way to the kitchen. The electrical box was in the pantry. So was his flashlight. There was another in the bedroom, but he didn’t feel like walking through the dark to retrieve it.

He knew the apartment well enough to navigate into the kitchen without one. It was like all the other cheap apartments his government had placed him in around the world.

He couldn’t really complain, though. He had lived in places much worse. At least he was in Europe.

Laying his coat over the back of the lone chair at the breakfast table, he crossed over to the pantry. Hopefully, it was just a fuse. He had a small box of spares sitting on one of the shelves.

He opened the door of the pantry and
POP
!

Sergun heard the sound at the same time he saw the red light of a laser pointed right at his chest. That was the last thing he remembered before the searing-hot pain shot through his entire body.

• • •

The Taser still in his hand, Harvath sprang from the pantry as Sergun’s body hit the kitchen floor. He didn’t bother to remove the barbed metal probes from the man’s chest. There wasn’t time.

Rolling him onto his stomach, he placed plastic EZ Cuff restraints over the Russian’s wrists and yanked them tight. He then did the same with his ankles.

He finished by tearing off a piece of duct tape from the roll in his coat pocket and placing it over the military attaché’s mouth. Looking up, he nodded.

Herman began radioing commands to his team as he laid out a black plastic body bag in the hallway. It had been punctured with airholes so that Sergun would still be able to breathe.

As they bent down to pick him up, he began to struggle. Harvath waved Herman back and depressed the trigger of the Taser again.

The painful burst of electricity raced through the Russian’s body like shards of broken glass and he went completely rigid.

When the pulse ended, they rolled him over and picked him up. Harvath had his shoulders and Herman his feet.

They carried him into the hall and laid him on top of the unzipped body bag. Harvath patted him down, going through his pockets, around his waistband, the seams of his trousers, everywhere. Russian intelligence officers were notorious for the escape and evasion materials they hid on their persons.

In addition to his passport, credit cards, and a roll of cash, Harvath found a handcuff shim, a small razor blade, and a length of diamond-encrusted string that could be used to saw through restraints.

Once those items were removed, he and Herman half-mummified the man with duct tape. The less he was able to move, the better.

When he was sufficiently immobilized, Herman let his men know that they were ready to roll. Zipping up the body bag, they waited for a knock on the apartment door.

Seconds later, there was a soft rap. Herman let Bosch and Farber in, everyone grabbed a handle, and they exited the apartment, closing the door behind them.

They moved quickly to the stairs and headed down the three floors to the street.

As soon as they stepped outside, Adler rolled up in Herman’s BMW and popped the trunk.

Harvath looked up and down the sidewalk. There was no one in sight. Nodding, he gave the order to move.

They threaded the space between two parked cars, and threw Sergun in the trunk.

Herman then shut the lid and climbed in back with Harvath and Farber. Bosch jumped into the front passenger seat and Adler drove off. The entire operation had taken less than ten minutes.

CHAPTER 42

S
ATURDAY

M
ALTA

T
he drive from Berlin to Frankfurt was just over an hour and they were careful to obey the speed limit. By the time they arrived at the airport, it was shortly before sunrise.

Moving people and black-market antiquities through any airport, much less one the size of Frankfurt International, required a network of people on the take. Eichel had given all of them up.

Hoping to purchase his freedom, he had surrendered the names and phone numbers of everyone at the airport who was working for him. He would have to do a lot more than rat his associates out, though, and Harvath had explained what it was. Eichel had nodded in agreement and had begun making phone calls.

There was a small checkpoint entrance on the far northeast side of the airport. When they pulled up, it was unmanned.

Within seconds, the yellow concrete bollards in front of them lowered, the gate drew back, and the red- and white-striped security arm blocking their way was raised.

“Open sesame,” Herman remarked as he drove onto the airport grounds and headed for the civil aviation area.

Outside a windowless gray hangar, a German Customs and Immigration official sat in a white Mercedes waiting for them.

When they pulled alongside, the man rolled his window down and Harvath handed over an envelope.

After counting the money, the official wished them a good flight, rolled his window up, and drove away.

“It pays to know people,” said Herman as he watched the Mercedes drive off. “I never get through the airport this fast.”

It hadn’t been cheap. While Eichel’s man was crooked, he wasn’t stupid. He had made sure he was well compensated for his risk.

Helen Cartland, the CIA’s Berlin station chief, had flat-out refused the amount of money Harvath had requested. Lydia Ryan had to call from Langley and order her to release it.

When Cartland showed up at the produce warehouse to deliver the cash, she presented Harvath with a receipt and demanded that he sign it. She didn’t want her ass on the line for such a large sum.

Harvath shook his head and signed her slip of paper.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked when she read his signature.
“Justin Credible
?”

He winked at her and had Bosch walk her back out to her car as they finished getting the prisoners ready.

Then, once they were all prepped, they were loaded into the trunk of the BMW. Bosch and Farber followed in Harvath’s vehicle, which they would be returning for him.

Inside the hangar, a sleek Bombardier Global 6000 business jet owned by the CIA was waiting. Herman and his men helped him board and secure the prisoners. All three were wearing blindfolds, hoods, and earmuffs.

Herman offered to come along to help with security, but Harvath turned him down. It was a short flight. He’d be fine.

They said their goodbyes at the bottom of the airstairs. Harvath thanked Herman and his men for their help.

Fifteen minutes later, he had a mug of hot coffee in his hand, the powerful aircraft was thundering down the runway, and the sun had begun to rise.

Harvath sat back in his chair and watched out the window as the pilots banked and turned the jet south toward the Mediterranean.

Normally, this would have been a prime opportunity for him to get some sleep. But with prisoners on board, that was out of the question.

Instead, he used the time to let his mind wander. There were still so many questions he didn’t have the answers to.

No sooner had he begun to list them than they began to crash up
against each other like a pile-up on a busy interstate. He had questions about Salah, Malevsky, and Sacha Baseyev. What the Russians knew. What they didn’t know. What was next and who was responsible.

It was all Harvath could do not to start interrogating Sergun right there on the plane. Lydia Ryan, though, had been absolutely specific on how it was to be handled. The instructions had come from her boss, Director McGee. And Harvath knew that McGee had issued the orders based on the wishes of the President. He would have to wait until he got to Malta.

As he watched the blue-black sky turn orange, he thought about Lara. It had been days since he had spoken with her. She’d be back in Boston by now.

Knowing her, she’d probably spent a little time with her family and then headed right into the office, jet lag be damned.

Staring at the three hooded figures in the back of the plane, he took a sip of his coffee. It was hard to say that this was better than being in Boston with Lara.

For a moment, he thought about what moving to Boston might be like. D.C. was where his career was. At least that was what he had always told himself.

Working at The Carlton Group had a lot of upside. His boss was a legend in the spy game, the money was fantastic, and even though the Old Man had not directly said it, he was grooming Harvath to take over one day.

But what did that mean? It was a question he knew the answer to but had never really thought about.

It meant running the business. Schmoozing politicians. Glad-handing agency heads. Winning contracts.

He’d be trading in fieldwork for paperwork. Covert operations for conference rooms.

He knew plenty of guys who had gone corporate. Men who had traded being Tier One for the Fortune 500. Or who had completely set up their own businesses.

In return, they had received a semblance of stability. Freed from the relentless tempo of being elite operators, they could now have their chance to enjoy the American Dream.

They bought boats and summerhouses. Took long vacations and went on epic hunting and fishing trips. They were living the dream.

But get a couple of drinks into them and they’d tell you that they missed the action. That nothing matched it. That as much as they loved their new careers and being with their wives and families, the old life never stopped calling. It was an itch that just couldn’t be scratched.

There was also the sense of purpose. None of the men Harvath had known had been in it for the money. They were there because they believed in the mission and the men who were fighting alongside them. It was a calling and, as such, extremely difficult to walk away from.

Harvath took another sip of coffee and looked back out the window.

He had never considered that Reed Carlton might pull him from the field before he was ready to leave it behind. It was crazy that it hadn’t crossed his mind before.

When the Old Man was ready to hang it up, he was going to hang it up. It wouldn’t matter where Harvath thought he was more valuable or where he wanted to be. Carlton would have already made up his mind.

He would have thought everything out. He would have anticipated every rebuttal Harvath might raise. He’d have an offer for him and it would be fantastic. And knowing Harvath as well as he did, he’d have an ironclad justification ready as well.

The Old Man would appeal to Harvath’s sense of duty and patriotism. He’d explain why the country needed him to give up fieldwork and helm The Carlton Group. Finally, he would appeal to his sense of loyalty.

None of it would be pretty. And frankly, Harvath had no idea how he might respond. What he did know, was that once the offer had been made, their relationship would have crossed a Rubicon.

There would be no going back to the way things were before. That wasn’t how Carlton operated. He was incredibly stubborn and single-minded when it came to the business and what he thought best served the needs of the country.

You either followed his advice, or he advised you to hit the road. Things were black, or they were white. There was no gray.

But while there was no gray with the Old Man, there was with the Agency. In fact, there was
green
—and in more ways than one.

Harvath was reminded of his conversation with Helen Cartland in the pub back in Berlin. She had asked him what kind of green badger he was. Was he a private contractor or corporate?

In his time working with the CIA, he had learned about a hybrid type of contractor. Something called SpecTal, a combination of someone who was sometimes a private contractor and sometimes a corporate contractor.

But for that to happen, Carlton would have to want to keep him around. If Harvath said no to moving into a leadership role at the company, he doubted that was going to be an option. The Old Man would cut ties. That was just the way he was.

If he wanted to stay in the field, going the private route might be the answer. He would be giving up a lot by leaving The Carlton Group, but he stood to gain so much in return.

The CIA wouldn’t care if he lived in Boston or Bangladesh. All they would care about is that when they called, he picked up the phone.

Becoming a private contractor for the Agency would allow him to do what he loved to do, and do it from Boston.

He’d have to give up his house. And there was also the chance that the President wouldn’t be happy with his decision, but how much would that matter?

He wasn’t hanging up his cleats. He’d just be using a different locker room. If the President wanted him for something, he could still find him. He just wouldn’t be right down the road.

The more he thought about it, the more the pieces started falling into place. For a moment, he had to stop himself and ask if this was really what he wanted to do. Was he actually going to leave The Carlton Group?

He was tired. His head wasn’t on straight. It was a crazy idea. Certainly not something he should be thinking about in the middle of an operation. Pondering the future wasn’t something he could afford to do right now. He needed to focus on the present.

He turned his mind back to all the questions that had been piling up like a chain-reaction car crash in his brain. He pulled at a thread here, a thread there, trying to unravel what it all meant.

He was on his third cup of coffee and no closer to any answers when the plane began to descend and Harvath looked back out the window.

They were over the water, just south of Sicily. Double-checking the prisoners, he returned to his seat and buckled up.

It felt odd to be returning. His last visit had marked a low and very dark time for him. He had stayed drunk for days and had even taken a shot at the man he was about to see.

Hopefully, he’d already put that behind him. If Harvath had wanted to kill him, he would have. It had been only a warning shot.

Some people, though, had a way of carrying a grudge. Especially those who had been shot at.