Foreign Agent (25 page)

CHAPTER 56

G
eneral Oleg Proskurov was a careful man, a planner. He understood that even the smallest, most insignificant detail could throw off the greatest of undertakings. History was replete with brilliant men undone by seemingly minuscule factors.

And so, Sergun’s concerns about Baseyev troubled him. Baseyev was too important to lose.

Perhaps they were leaning on Baseyev too heavily. Perhaps he was feeling the stress of being too long in the field. His operations tempo had been excruciating. He had been asked to pull off not one spectacular feat but several. It would have taken its toll on anyone.

Proskurov had been thinking about the right way to deal with him. If Baseyev was beginning to crack, should they keep him in the game? Would a couple of days off help him catch his breath? Would he need more than that? A week? Could they even afford to take him out of play at this point?

The Americans were on the edge of getting in. He knew it. He could feel it in his bones. It was only a matter of time.

The attack on the White House was a national affront to their overinflated sense of honor. The United States could launch a thousand cruise missiles, but it wouldn’t assuage the anger and humiliation felt by its citizens.

For the last two weeks, Proskurov had been watching American television news. He knew what Americans were thinking and feeling. Even
the most dovish among them was admitting that ISIS had grown into too great a problem to be ignored. They were clamoring for ISIS to be dealt with once and for all.

The American President, though, was weighing his options. Proskurov understood why. This was nothing to rush into. United States citizens would be baying for blood. They would demand a quick, decisive engagement. Shock, awe, and carnage. That’s all. No nation-building. Come in, kill all the vipers in the pit, and go home. They had no stomach for an occupation.

That was good. Russia didn’t want an American occupation either. It needed an exterminator, not a roommate.

As soon as ISIS was defeated by the Americans, Russia could fully crush the Syrian opposition. Then, with the Syrian regime back on its feet, Russia could extend its territorial ambitions in the region. As America receded, Russia would take center stage.

General Proskurov was in his late sixties. Up until this point, he hadn’t known if he would live to see such a thing in his lifetime. The idea of an ascendant Russia was beyond anyone’s imagination just a few short years ago. Then came Ukraine, and now Syria. Instead of shrinking, Russian influence was growing.

But Proskurov knew that as it grew, it was important to maintain stability at home. One of the greatest domestic threats Russia faced was from Islamic radicals. That was why it was so important to keep Sacha Baseyev in the game.

His penetration of ISIS and its inner core was a great accomplishment of the GRU. But his mission wasn’t over yet.

The GRU still needed him to secure the intelligence on all the Russian speakers who had come to train and fight with ISIS.

Where had they come from? How many had returned home? How many had stayed behind? How many had been killed or wounded? How were they recruited? Who had done the recruiting? Were specific plans in the works for attacks inside Russia? What and who were their targets? How did cell members communicate? How were they financed? And so on.

It was critical intelligence and no one was better positioned than Baseyev to secure it. Whatever Proskurov needed to say, whatever he
needed to promise, he would. It was imperative that Baseyev complete his assignment.

The General looked out the thick, bulletproof glass of his Land Cruiser as they drove through the streets of Damascus. It was an intriguing city—exotic, but with enough modern conveniences to make it comfortable.

He liked it better than Moscow. That wasn’t saying much, though. He liked any place better than Moscow.

The only place he disliked more was his hometown, Dzerzhinsk. It was a hub for Russia’s chemicals industry. And with the chemical companies had come chemical weapons programs.

Dzerzhinsk, appropriately enough, had been named after the very first head of Russia’s secret police. Its soil and water were polluted. Birth defects and cancer were through the roof. It was said that the death rate in Dzerzhinsk was three times the birthrate. Only Chernobyl was more toxic. Proskurov shuddered at the thought of it. He was glad to have gotten out.

But while he had turned his back on Dzerzhinsk, Dzerzhinsk hadn’t turned its back on him.

A year into his first marriage he learned he was sterile. The doctors couldn’t identify a cause. He, though, knew exactly what had robbed him of the ability to produce offspring—Dzerzhinsk. His hate for the city of his birth swelled.

His wife ended up leaving him because of his sterility. It was a crushing blow. As only a true Russian can, he had drowned his pain in vodka and thrown himself into his military career.

He remarried years later. She had no children and didn’t want any. She was a good enough companion. She didn’t mind his long stretches away from home.

When he was home, she cooked for him and they made love. All told, it would have been cheaper to keep a one-room apartment and visit prostitutes in Moscow. But knowing he was tied to another human being somewhere in the world made his assignments abroad more bearable.

It didn’t, though, make any of them easier. Especially not this one.

Russia had gone all in on Syria. And after they had gone all in, they
had doubled down. They didn’t intend to allow the Turks, the Saudis, or anyone else to dislodge them.

In addition to the recently arrived Slava-class guided missile cruiser
Moskva
, and three more Ropucha-class amphibious assault ships based at Tartus, Russia’s sole aircraft carrier, the
Admiral Kuznetsov
, was now in the Mediterranean along with her escort the
Admiral Chabanenko
, a Udaloy II–class destroyer.

Then there were the aircraft.

Ninety kilometers north of Tartus was the Khmeimim air base—accessible only to Russian personnel. In the last two days, a fleet of Su-35S supermaneuverable multirole fighters had been flown in. They were the most modern fighter aircraft in service with the Russian Air Force and this was the first time they had ever been put into operation outside Russia’s borders.

Two Tu-214Rs had also been flown in. The Tu-214R was Russia’s most advanced reconnaissance and surveillance aircraft. With all-weather radar systems and highly sophisticated electro optical sensors, the spy plane was incredibly adept at pinpointing hidden or camouflaged targets. It could also scoop up and monitor enemy communications and electronic signals.

Topping it all off, state-of-the-art S-400 defense missile systems had been moved into Syria to protect Russian assets.

The message Russia was sending to the rest of the world was crystal
clear:
Don’t fuck with us
.

It was an enormous gamble, which made Proskurov’s task even more crucial. He would not be the man who let his country down.

Rolling up to the saltbox, one of the detail agents jumped out and opened up the gates.

After the SUVs were through, he closed the gates behind them. Inside the courtyard, the vehicles turned around so that they were facing out, ready to leave once Proskurov’s meeting was over.

The Spetsnaz operative opened the General’s door and the man stepped out with his laptop bag over his shoulder and a small cardboard box, which contained tea and a few other items from back home he thought Baseyev might enjoy.

Removing a key ring from his pocket, he unlocked one of the courtyard doors and stepped inside. There was a samovar in the kitchen. He wanted to fire it up and start heating water for tea.

He found making tea the old fashioned way relaxing. It also tasted better than using an electric kettle.

His favorite tea was Russian Caravan—a blend of oolong, Keemun, and Lapsang souchong. It had a smoky flavor to it that mimicked the tea of old, imported from China to Russia via camel caravans. During the long journey—sometimes a year to a year and a half, the tea absorbed its distinct flavor from the caravan campfires.

Placing the samovar in the sink, he filled it with water. Then, removing the sack of kindling and wood chips he kept in the cabinet, he packed the cylinder in the center with just the right amount of fuel.

Patting his pockets, he realized that he had left his cigarettes, and with them his lighter, in the car. There had to be a box of kitchen matches somewhere, though.

After looking through several drawers, he finally found them in a cabinet near the coffee mugs.

Placing the samovar on the stove, he removed a match from the box, but hesitated in striking it.

The hair on the back of his neck was suddenly standing on end. He didn’t know what, but something was wrong.

Setting the match and matchbox down on the counter, he turned to walk out of the kitchen. As he did, an enormous explosion detonated outside, shattering the windows and sending an enormous shockwave through the building.

CHAPTER 57

T
he first Wasp had come screaming in and had detonated with such a loud explosion that they hadn’t even known the second missile had been launched until it hit the second SUV with an eruption that sent an enormous fireball roiling up into the night sky.

“Now!” Harvath commanded back to northern Virginia.

Nicholas, who had hacked into the Damascus power grid, shut down the electricity in a ten-block radius. The entire neighborhood went dark.

Hitting the roof of the saltbox, Harvath gave the signal for the Hadids and their men to follow.

Charging the stairwell door, he racked his shotgun and placed it at a forty-five degree angle in, forty-five degrees down. Taking it off the safety, he looked at Thoman, who was his cover man.

When Thoman nodded, Harvath pressed the trigger and sent one of his heavy slugs flying into the area between the lock and the door frame. He then turned and mule-kicked the door. It didn’t budge.

Turning around, he racked the shotgun and went after the hinges.

The weapon thundered as he unleashed three more rounds.

This time when he kicked, the door exploded inward. Thoman peered down into the stairwell, his weapon raised, ready for any threat that might have been waiting on the other side. It was empty.

Harvath handed off the shotgun and transitioned to his rifle. Tapping Thoman, who moved out of the way, he took up the point position and led the team down into the building.

The stairwell glowed ghostly gray-white in their thermal-vision goggles. Harvath had no idea if the Russians had similar equipment or not. According to the team in the overwatch position, only Proskurov was seen getting out of a vehicle carrying anything—a bag of some sort over his shoulder and a small box. If the Spetsnaz team did have night-vision or thermal equipment, Harvath hoped that they had left it in their SUVs and it had all gone up in flames.

Stepping out onto the second floor, Harvath swept his AK from side to side.

All of the windows facing down into the courtyard had been blown out. Broken glass littered the Persian rugs. The fires from outside were burning so hot he could feel the heat on his face. Dust and smoke choked the air. The building would soon be completely engulfed.

Harvath signaled for his B team to take cover and hold their position. He then motioned for the Hadid brothers to follow him. Sidestepping the glass, they moved rapidly down the hallway.

They passed two bedrooms. Both were empty. Reaching the stairs that led to the ground floor, he made a decision and said, “Wait here.”

Before the Hadids could object, Harvath had disappeared down the stairs and into the thickening smoke.

When he reached the ground floor, he scanned the room. The thermal goggles allowed him to see through the smoke and dust. He could make out an overturned table, chairs, and a sofa. What he couldn’t see were any Russians.

Then he heard shots fired from outside. Within seconds, it was a full-on gunfight. Proskurov and his detail must have tried to make a run for the street.

Based on the position of the two Syrians outside, Harvath knew that the Russians would be pinned down. The Hadids’ men had excellent cover and concealment. They could rain lead down on the Russians all night without exposing themselves. But then something happened.

As soon as Harvath heard the explosion, he knew what it was. Someone had thrown a grenade. None of the Syrians outside were carrying any. It had to have been the Russians.
Damn it.
They weren’t coming back inside the building. They were going to make their escape on foot!

Harvath began shouting instructions over the radio as he raced out into the courtyard.

There were twisted pieces of flaming metal everywhere. Columns of charcoal-black smoke twisted up into the sky.

Rounds were still being fired, but it sounded like it was coming from only one weapon.

Pulling up short against the courtyard wall, Harvath dropped to one knee. Bringing his weapon up, he leaned out around the edge of the wall and took a quick look.

At the end of the drive, just inside the gates, was a lone male firing a short, fully automatic weapon. His attention was focused across the street, where the Hadids’ men had been.

From this distance, it looked like he was shooting a Bizon SMG—a 9mm submachine gun popular with Russian counterterrorism units.

He was laying down cover fire, helping Proskurov and the rest of the detail to escape. He should have kept an eye on his six o’clock.

Lining up his sights, Harvath took the shot and dropped him right at the gates.
One down
.

He heard a noise behind him and turned to see the Hadids rushing out of the building and into the courtyard.

“Where are the rest of your men?”

Thoman pointed up. “They’re using the rooftops.”

Mathan was carrying a thin laptop bag. “Where’d you find that?” Harvath asked.

“On the floor inside. I think it may be the bag Proskurov was carrying.”

Harvath nodded and looked at his watch. As soon as the Russians had realized they were under attack, one of them would have called for a quick response team from their embassy.

In a perfect world, they would have had ten minutes. The real world being what it was, Harvath figured they had less than five. And if the Syrian army hadn’t been activated yet, it would be soon.

Running for the gates, he drew even with the Spetsnaz soldier he had shot. He looked down. The man was still alive. That was a problem.

He had an earpiece in his ear, a microphone just inside his jacket, and he was babbling in Russian.

Applying pressure to his trigger, Harvath put two rounds into him, point-blank.
End of problem
.

Taking the man’s radio, he stepped up to the gates and looked out.

On the sidewalk, another Spetsnaz man was down in a huge pool of blood. He wasn’t moving. The Hadids’ men had managed to get one. Good for them.

“Which way did they go?” Harvath asked.

“Overwatch says they went left,” Mathan replied, chopping the air with his left hand.

Harvath held the radio up to his ear and listened. A quick response team, or QRT for short, was in fact inbound. They had just loaded up and were rolling out the Embassy gates.
“Shest’ minuty,”
a voice said.
Six minutes
.

When Harvath nodded, the Hadids leaned out of the gates and aimed their weapons in opposite directions to give him cover.

After making sure the Russian on the sidewalk was dead, he tore across the street and took cover between two badly damaged cars. Both of the Syrians assigned to cover the front of the saltbox had been blown to pieces.

Propping his weapon up on the hood of the parked car he was hiding behind, he waved Mathan over. Once he was safely across, his brother joined them. Then, they hauled ass as carefully as they could down the sidewalk.

They had almost reached the end of the block, when Thoman and Mathan in unison said, “Stop!”

One of their men was relaying something over the radio in rapid Arabic.

“We’ve got them,” Thoman replied.

“Where?” said Harvath.

“Apartment building on the corner.”

“Do your people have eyes on?”

Mathan nodded. “Ittak is the man who fired one of the Wasps and then came to provide backup. He followed the Russians.”

He was smart not to engage,
thought Harvath. “Good, tell him to stay out of sight and just keep watching.”

Mathan relayed Harvath’s instructions as they kept moving.

Just before the intersection, they pulled up short and stopped at the rear of the building.

Harvath scanned the area through his thermals. He could make out the B team crouched behind the parapet on the roof across the street.

Pointing at them, he asked Thoman, “How’s their accuracy at that distance?”

The man raised his thumb, but turned it upside down. “They’re not snipers.”

“They might not have to be,” replied Harvath, who then pointed at the boulevard down at the corner and said, “Your man with the fifty-cal and his spotter—”

“Outha and Koshy.”

Harvath shook his head. “Whatever. The Russian Embassy has a team coming in. They’re going to pull up in front of that building any minute now to pick up their people. Your men need to be ready to take them out. Same thing if the army or police show up. Understood?”

Thoman nodded and immediately began radioing orders to his men.

Mathan looked at Harvath. “And us?”

Harvath glanced at the T-shirt under his jacket. “How good are you and your brother with pistols at close range?”