Foreign Agent (30 page)

CHAPTER 67

H
arvath was the first one over the wall. It wrapped around the entire house. Cars were meant to be parked in front and there was a lush garden in back. ISIS obviously thought very highly of Sacha Baseyev and had gifted him a very nice Syrian property. They were about to regret that—and then some.

Harvath figured the two ISIS minders at the house had probably met Baseyev at the airfield, had driven him back, and were now keeping an eye on him for whatever reason. Based on Baseyev’s skill set, he didn’t strike him as someone who needed protection.

Not that ISIS would have been familiar with his background, but by this point he would have proved himself exceptionally capable in battle. Bodyguards seemed a bit over the top.

That said, protection work was a plumb assignment. Perhaps the goons watching over him were affiliated with the higher-ups in ISIS. He was probably doing someone a favor by taking them on. That was usually how these things went.

Harvath didn’t care. He was going to kill them both.

Moving around to the front of the house, he adjusted his thermal goggles, the same pair he had worn at the saltbox.

By now, the Hadids would be up and over the wall, taking up their predetermined positions. Harvath had been very specific about what he wanted them to do, and more important,
not
to do.

Peering into the front courtyard, he saw the man guarding the closed front gates. Beyond him was a large Toyota Land Cruiser.

The guard was leaned back in a chair, his feet up on a box of some sort. His weapon sat next to him, propped up against the wall.

Staring through the goggles, he focused on the man’s torso. It rose and fell in deep, slow breaths.
Was this guy asleep too?

Slung across his shoulder Harvath had a small canvas bag with two 1.5-liter water bottles.

Removing one, he unscrewed the cap, pulled his SIG, and placed the barrel into the mouth of the bottle: the poor man’s suppressor.

It would somewhat muffle his first shot, but it would limit his range and accuracy. He’d have to be up close. And after that, he only had one more bottle.

Quietly, he crept forward. When he was about fifteen feet away he stopped. He could hear something. The man was . . . snoring. He was definitely asleep.

Holstering his weapon, he screwed the cap back on the bottle and slid it back into his bag. Then he drew his Winkler knife.

As it came out of its leather sheath, he knew the edge was being stropped one last time. Not that it needed it. It was already sharp enough.

Careful with how and where he placed his feet, Harvath moved across the courtyard.

When he had closed the distance with the ISIS man covering Baseyev’s front gate, he noticed how enormous he was. The guard couldn’t have been an Arab. Harvath had never seen one that big.

A couple of feet more and Harvath was able to see his bearded face. The man was in his late twenties and looked Caucasian, possibly a Chechen. Harvath didn’t waste any time.

Slipping behind him, he placed his left palm across the man’s mouth and tilted his head back as he plunged the knife into the base of his neck on the right side.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he shot the knife forward. It slashed his trachea and severed his artery.

Even though he was unable to call out for help, the man still fought hard as the blood gushed from his throat.

He was so big, it took all of the strength that Harvath had to keep him seated in his chair.

When the last bit of life had finally fled the man’s body, Harvath released his grasp.

Wiping his blade on the man’s coat, Harvath returned it to his sheath and approached the house.

Based on the drone intel, the man on the ground floor was going to be difficult to subdue. Removing the bottle of water again, he made ready to step inside.

Stepping up to the front of the building, he looked left and then right. The Hadids were in place, and both of them indicated that he was clear to go through the front door.

Harvath tried the handle. It was unlocked. Gently, he pushed it open and peered inside.

Thermal goggles read heat, which allowed him to not only pick up people, but also the heat left behind in handprints, as well as footprints.

Following Muslim tradition, the men had taken off their boots and left them near the front door.

While Baseyev’s heat signature had already faded, Harvath could make out the footprints of the man the drone had picked up moving around on the ground floor. He had just exited a nearby room and walked toward the back of the home.

Harvath wasn’t sure if it was to the kitchen or some other room. A faint light glowed at the end of the hall. Careful not to make any noise, he slipped inside and closed the front door behind him.

Flipping up his goggles, he gave his eyes a chance to adjust to the light. Though he couldn’t see the man, he could hear him.

There was the muted sound of gunfire and then,
an explosion
. Harvath instantly knew what was going on. The ISIS operative was playing a video game—probably a first-person-shooter simulation.

Younger jihadists loved games like
Halo
and
Call of Duty
. They binged on them—whiling away hours of boredom, believing the games helped improve their battlefield performance.

Though that part was dubious, one thing was for sure. The act of immersing yourself in a video absolutely shredded your situational awareness. The ISIS operative had no clue that Harvath had entered the room and was standing right behind him.

His rifle lay on the couch next to him, but both of his hands were on his game controller. He wasn’t as big as the man outside, but he was still quite large, and about the same age. Harvath raised his weapon.

When the man let loose with a noisy, full auto burst of gunfire in the game, Harvath pressed the trigger of his SIG Sauer.

The round exploded through the water bottle and tore through the man’s head.

Blood, bone, and pieces of brain matter splattered across the console, the screen, and the wall just beyond it. The back of the couch was soaked with water.

Two down, one to go,
thought Harvath.

Backing out of the room, he made his way through the house, checking each room as he went.

The furnishings were cheap and threadbare, but one item caught his eye. In the kitchen, among the dented pots and decades-old pans, was a gorgeous, very expensive, Japanese chef’s knife.

It was displayed like a museum piece, just as the knives in Baseyev’s apartment in Frankfurt had been. Evil always wanted to possess what it could not create.

Leaving the kitchen, Harvath arrived at the darkened staircase leading up to the second story. Coming to a stop, he stood for several moments and listened. There was no sound. So, with the Hadids standing guard outside, he flipped his goggles down and began his ascent.

He chose his steps carefully, making sure to stay to the outside of each tread. The stairs were solid. Not one groaned under the weight of his boots.

At the top of the landing he stopped, looked left, and then he looked right. All of the doors were open except for one—Baseyev’s.

He listened again, but still heard nothing. He had no idea if the man was awake or asleep. Holstering his pistol, he removed the black Taser X26P Williams had provided him with in Amman, and powered it up.

The floors of the hallway were covered with stone. He wouldn’t have to worry about a board creaking and giving him away. Even so, he chose his steps just as carefully as he had coming up the stairs. Baseyev was so close he could almost feel him.

But no sooner had he neared the bedroom door than he realized he
was in trouble. It didn’t have a handle. For security, Baseyev had rigged it so that it could only be opened from inside.

“Fuck,” Harvath cursed under his breath.

He examined the door itself and then the frame, looking for a latch or a switch, anything that might open it from this side. He came up empty.

Think,
he told himself.
There has to be a way. There’s always a way
. Then he remembered the balcony and the shutters that were open to the outside.

Retreating from the door, he retraced his footsteps to the top of the stairs and began searching for the roof access. It had to be somewhere on the second floor.

Moving quietly through each room he searched—looking for a panel in the ceiling, a ladder or some sort of hidden staircase. As he did, he tried to recall the images he had seen of the roof.
How was it accessed?

Finally, he realized the access had to be from Baseyev’s room. In fact, it probably was a trap door of some sort that he had covered up with one of the upturned satellite dishes. That meant Harvath was going to have to find another way up.

He stuck his head out the windows of two rooms before he finally found a part of the façade with enough handholds to get him all the way up to the roof. Securing all of his gear, he stepped out onto a narrow ledge and began to climb.

It only took a couple of seconds to get up and over the top.

“What are you doing on the roof?” Ryan asked from back at Langley.

Harvath looked up, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see the drone. “Long story. Is Pitchfork still in bed?”

“Roger that,” she replied. “The Reaper just made a pass. He’s still there.”

At least something was going his way
. “Roger that,” Harvath whispered. “Going to zero comms.”

Zero comms was code for
no further communications
. He didn’t need people talking in his ear as he was preparing to take down Baseyev.

“Zero comms. Roger that,” Ryan said. “Good luck.”

Harvath appreciated it. With what he was about to do, he was going to need all the luck in the world.

CHAPTER 68

C
limbing up onto the roof was one thing. Climbing down was something altogether different.

Harvath was forced to leave most of his gear behind. In addition to weighing him down, it rattled and made too much noise. He couldn’t afford to make a sound.

Slipping over the edge of the roof, he began his descent toward Baseyev’s balcony.

It was much more difficult here than the other side of the house had been, far fewer handhelds and places to put his feet.

The grips were so minimal that there were places where he was digging his fingernails into soft pieces of mortar just to hang on.

He moved not by inches but by millimeters. His hands ached and his body was soon covered with perspiration. If anyone happened by below, he’d be exposed.

Shoving the pain and the pounding of his heart from his consciousness, he kept going. The balcony was only a few more meters away.

He kept running out of places to put his hands, as well as his feet. But each time he did, he took a breath and willed himself to look around.
Find something,
he told himself.
It’s here, you just have to look for it.
And each time he did, he found it.

The balcony now was only feet away. It was almost over. He kept moving toward it, ready to let go of the wall.

But no sooner had he reached it than he heard a sound from inside. Baseyev had set an alarm on his phone to wake himself up.

Harvath couldn’t even manage to utter the word
fuck
. The pain in his hands was excruciating—and it was spreading. He could feel it in his legs, his arms, and his back. His entire body wanted him to give up. It was begging him to.

Each nerve ending was screaming for him to let go and just drop to the ground. The fact that he’d be badly injured in the fall made no difference. All the muscles of his body could focus on was immediate relief.
Let go,
they screamed.
Let go!

Harvath bit down and redoubled his tenuous grip on the wall. He wasn’t going to let go. He forced himself to keep moving toward the balcony.

But what about Baseyev?
He strained his ears for any hint of what was going on inside.

The alarm had been silenced. Did that mean he was awake? Or had he activated the snooze feature and rolled over and gone back to sleep?

He was too close to even whisper back to Ryan to give him a SITREP from the drone. And unless the drone was making a pass right at that moment, it wouldn’t be able to provide him the feedback he needed. There was only one way to know for sure.

Pushing himself the last foot and a half, he reached the balcony and eased himself down onto its solid concrete wraparound. Relief immediately coursed through his body.

He didn’t have time, though, to stand there and allow his body to uncramp. He needed to move.

Stepping quietly off the surround and onto the balcony floor, he willed his stiff fingers to obey and drew his Taser. This was it. Baseyev was about to pay for everything that he had done.

Moving toward the large shutters that separated the balcony from the bedroom, he paused. There was no sound. Harvath took that as a good sign. The exhausted man had rolled over and gone back to sleep.

With his Taser tucked in to the ready position at his chest, he spun into Baseyev’s room and prepared to fire.

The bed, though, was empty. In the corner was an AK-47, but no Baseyev. Harvath barely had any time to process what was happening before his target was on top of him.

Baseyev must have awoken and heard a sound from the balcony. With no time to get to his weapon, he must have simply pressed himself up against the wall to wait for his attacker to materialize. When he did, Baseyev sprang, leveraging the element of surprise for all it was worth.

He landed two devastating blows—one under the man’s jaw and one to the side of his head. Harvath saw stars immediately and his already fatigued legs went rubbery on him.

Baseyev didn’t give him a moment or a millimeter to collect himself. He rained the blows down like a gorilla swinging a pair of sledgehammers.

It was pure Systema—the lethal Russian martial art taught to the Spetsnaz and all of the nation’s intelligence operatives.

The elbow and knee strikes came again, and again and again. Harvath’s vision dimmed and he lost control of the Taser. He barely heard it fall and go clattering across the floor.

The blows came so hard and so fast, Harvath couldn’t get himself into a position long enough to reach for his pistol or his knife.

He was getting his ass kicked. There was no other way to phrase it. Baseyev was an amazingly well trained and brutal fighter, relentless in his attack.

If Harvath didn’t do something fast, he was going to lose consciousness. And if he did, it would be game over for him. There was only one thing he could think to do.

Planting his feet, he dropped into a squat and lunged at Baseyev, catching him around the waist and driving him over backward.

They landed hard on the concrete floor and the air raced from Baseyev’s lungs. Harvath showed him no mercy.

Harvath beat him twice as hard as Baseyev had beaten him. He beat Baseyev for every American he had killed. He beat him for every loved one and family member who had been left behind.

He broke ribs and watched Baseyev vomit up blood. He grazed him with a punch across the top of his head so severe it removed a piece of scalp.

And then, on the razor-thin edge of killing the man, he stopped and rolled off him.

Baseyev gasped, trying to fill his body again with oxygen. He coughed
repeatedly, aspirating on his own blood. A river of it ran from his torn lip. Some even ran out of his left ear.

Harvath had been opened up in a couple of places across his face, but he looked like a supermodel in comparison.

Struggling to his feet, he retrieved his Taser and then came back over and kicked Baseyev as hard as he could in the ribs.

The blow hit so hard he could actually hear them crack. “That’s from the President of the United States.”

He was tempted to deliver another kick, but he didn’t want to risk puncturing and collapsing one of the man’s lungs. There were still several things he needed from him.

Rolling Baseyev over onto his stomach, Harvath zip-tied his wrists and ankles, placed a piece of duct tape across his mouth, and then forced him to sit upright against the wall.

Harvath felt like he had been hit by a train. Sliding down the wall into a sitting position next to him, Harvath caught his breath and waited for some of his strength to return.

It took everything he had not to kill Baseyev right there and right then. As far as D.C. was concerned, that was a perfectly legitimate option. Harvath, though, wanted more.

Pulling out his phone, he got ready to interrogate him. But before he removed the tape from the man’s mouth, he explained what his options were.

He was offering him a one-time-only deal. If Baseyev agreed, Harvath would honor his end of the bargain.

If he didn’t, Harvath would leave him for ISIS and would make sure they knew he was a traitor.

“So what’s it going to be, Sacha?” he asked, as he yanked the piece of tape off his mouth.

The man turned to the side and spat a glob of blood and saliva onto the floor. Turning his gaze back to Harvath, he replied, “I accept.”