by Brad Thor
Killing bad guys—be they mujahideen, hijackers, warlords, or drug kingpins, was one thing. Blending into a normal, everyday scene—as he was doing right now—killing high-profile targets, professional assassins, and unassuming ex-military bodyguards was something completely different.
Chase was exceptional at taking out unsophisticated killers in their own backyard, but now, he had to become the best at taking out sophisticated ones in his.
The West was under attack and it was full of them. The war was changing. He and Sloane were the future. So was Jasinski, if she was truly onboard.
When they got to Tretyakov’s apartment building, Chase asked, “What now?”
“Now,” Harvath replied, “we keep walking. No matter what happens, you never stop in front of a target.”
They kept going until they arrived at a corner with a small German café serving breakfast.
Before the Soviets had invaded in the 1940s, Kaliningrad had been part of Prussia. Today, German tourists were a huge part of their economy and there was a café, bar, or restaurant catering to them in every neighborhood, if not on every block.
“How’s your German?” Harvath asked as they took a table outside with a view of Tretyakov’s building.
“Terrible.”
“I’ve got this, then,” said Harvath, as a smiling waitress came over with menus and coffee.
Smiling back, he spoke to her in his passable Russian, but added a German accent. He sounded like a tourist attempting to speak the local language. The waitress humored him.
She asked where he was staying and, having done his homework, he was able to cite a nearby neighborhood and talk about renting an apartment via a popular Internet app.
As they drank their coffee, the pair looked for other places they might use for surveillance. They could only sit here for so long without drawing attention.
Chase pointed out a boarded-up building down the block. By the looks of it, its roof might have a halfway decent view.
More important, it would allow them to get off the street. According to Kuznetsov, Tretyakov liked to walk to work. The last thing they needed was to bump into him—especially since he might recognize Harvath.
Once their food arrived, they ate and paid their bill. The sooner they were out of sight, the better.
What’s more, Harvath was eager to get a closer look at Tretyakov’s apartment. He was starting to form a plan, which he hoped would allow them to snatch the GRU operative without anyone even knowing he was gone.
CHAPTER 66
* * *
Harvath and Palmer entered the abandoned building by removing a board from one of the rear windows and headed all the way upstairs. The roof, as they had hoped, had a decent, though partly obstructed view of Tretyakov’s apartment.
Sending out a text, they told Staelin and Ashby where to find them. Then they set up a small camera and took turns watching the ebb and flow of people, hoping to find a pattern.
Unfortunately, there was nothing special or predictable about any of the traffic. They saw a babushka—a little old woman who was likely the custodian—go in and come out several times from the building, sweeping and handling other menial labor chores.
In the Soviet days, babushkas were often informants who gladly passed on even the slightest pieces of gossip to the authorities. They were quick to report any unusual activity. She would need to be avoided.
And while she probably had keys to all the apartments, Harvath wasn’t interested. He could get into them without her. What he needed was information. What time did Tretyakov normally leave? What time did he normally come home? Did he entertain during the week? Did he own a vehicle?
All they had was where he lived, where he worked, and an outdated photo Nicholas had been able to uncover.
“Got him,” Chase suddenly said.
Harvath, who had been preparing to burst an encrypted SITREP back to the United States, looked over the edge of the roof.
In his suit and overcoat, with a leather briefcase slung from his shoulder, he looked every inch the unassuming businessman or government worker.
He paused for a moment on the sidewalk, chatting amiably with the babushka, who had followed him outside with a piece of mail.
He smiled at the old woman, but his eyes swept the street, scanning for anything unusual or out of place. He was alert, but relaxed, about to conduct his morning ritual of walking to work.
“Where are you going?” Chase asked as he saw Harvath get up.
“I’m going to follow him.”
“Are you nuts? He knows what you look like. If he even feels you on him, it could blow this whole thing.”
“He won’t feel me,” Harvath reassured him. “He won’t even know I’m there.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Stay here and watch his building.”
Chase shook his head. The decision felt impulsive to him. It was a huge risk and he couldn’t begin to fathom what Harvath thought he might gain from it.
Heading downstairs, Harvath climbed back out the rear window and came around the side of the building. Very carefully, he headed up the street after Tretyakov.
Most carnivores have a finely honed prey drive. It is the instinctive impulse to hunt and capture their food. The better the hunter, the better it is able to sense when it is being hunted. It was the same for human beings.
Most people, though, had deadened themselves to their instincts. They had stopped listening altogether. When their gut told them something was wrong, they rationalized the warning away. When the danger finally made itself too obvious to ignore, it was often too late to react.
Humans who hunted other humans had a highly developed prey drive. They could sense the presence of other hunters long before they could see them. Chase had been right to warn Harvath.
What Chase hadn’t fully learned yet, though, was how to mask the signals that other hunters pick up on. There was an energy, an intensity, that took over the moment the prey drive kicked in. As the hunter locked on to his quarry, it was like projecting a tractor beam.
The key to staying hidden was to unplug the beam, to turn it off by denying it any energy. It was a rather esoteric process. Chase jokingly referred to it as “The Force.” And while Harvath didn’t have a term for it, the best explanation he had ever found for it was in a book about Zen mysticism. Essentially, he removed his ego from the process. The hunt was neither good nor bad. Its outcome would be what it would be and was therefore, out of his control.
The ability to remove himself was what made him such an effective predator. Combined with the skills he had learned from the Old Man, he had risen to the very top of the pyramid. He was an apex predator, a hunter of other hunters.
One of the most important things about being an apex predator was to try not to appear like one. Once other predators noticed you, they immediately took interest and wanted to know what was going on.
So, like sheep around the world, he took out his phone and pretended to be looking at it as he walked. With his shoulders hunched and his head down, he fit right in with everyone else.
Just based on the time of day, Harvath had assumed Tretyakov was headed to his office, but as they neared the river, he watched him take a detour.
Up ahead was a short bridge covered with padlocks. On the other side was Kneiphof, the twenty-five-acre island Kuznetsov had told him about—Tretyakov’s “quiet place” where he sought refuge when he needed to get away from the office.
It seemed odd to be starting the day there, but who could say? Perhaps he just enjoyed passing through on his way to work.
As he watched the man cross the bridge, he unslung his backpack and removed a brightly colored guidebook. He opened to the section on Immanuel Kant and Königsberg Cathedral. Then, once he felt he had given the GRU officer enough of a lead, he began following him again.
Aside from a smattering of vagrants and occasional people cutting through, either on foot or by bicycle, the park was relatively qu
iet.
The scent of the river was strong and unpleasant. Harvath could only imagine what it was like at the height of summer. But despite that, the island appeared to be an enjoyable, and likely a popular place. It was filled with trees, there were open places to sunbathe or play soccer, there were plenty of benches, and in addition to the cobbled boulevard that ran up the center, there were a multitude of walking paths that branched off in all directions.
Harvath watched as Tretyakov passed the cathedral and the Kant tomb, then took a path that branched off to the right. At the first bench he came to, he sat down.
Placing his briefcase on his left side, he took out the envelope that the babushka had given him. Opening it, he removed the letter from inside, and began to read.
At that moment, another impulse fired from deep inside Harvath’s brain. Looking around, and not seeing anything suspicious, he decided to take Tretyakov right there in the park.
CHAPTER 67
* * *
Harvath walked up and stopped right in front of Tretyakov. For several moments, the Russian didn’t even bother to look up from his letter.
Once he did, he spoke in English. “Mr. Stephen Hall, I presume,” he said, using Harvath’s alias from Gotland.
“You can call me Steve.”
Returning the letter to its envelope, Tretyakov placed it in an outer pocket of his briefcase and studied the man standing in front of him.
“It’s a little early in the morning for that, isn’t it?” the GRU officer asked, eyeballing the empty vodka bottle Harvath had fished from a nearby trash can.
“This isn’t for me. It’s for you. In fact, you’re going to be holding on to it in a moment.”
“You think so?”
Harvath nodded. In his pack was a syringe of ketamine, known for its use as a horse tranquilizer. He had planned on hitting him with the Taser and then injecting him with the ketamine to make it look as if he had passed out drunk. As soon as he had him incapacitated, he would work on getting him out of the park and back to the abandoned building.
“Mr. Hall, or whatever your real name is, I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
The man was incredibly calm. He sat on the bench as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Though Harvath hadn’t shown it to him, he assumed that the hand he couldn’t see, the one hidden in his right coat pocket, was grasping a weapon.
“I think you’re going to be a lot of help to me,” said Harvath, pulling out his Taser.
“Close in. Now,” Tretyakov ordered in Russian.
The sudden switch from English jarred Harvath. Instantly, his head was on a swivel.
Four vagrants were now headed toward him from different directions, as were two more “passersby.” All had weapons drawn. It was a trap.
“Sometimes, things are too good to pass up,” said Tretyakov. “Like a GRU colonel, sitting alone, on a bench in a quiet section of a quiet park.”
“There’s no way you could have known I was coming.”
“I didn’t. It was a hunch, I believe you Americans call it. When Ivan failed to make contact, we assumed the worst. We knew eventually he would be broken. We just didn’t know when. I must thank you, though.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t think we would catch you so quickly. We were worried we might have to carry on this ruse for quite some time.”
Harvath shook his head. “Only six men? That’s all?”
“Apparently, that’s all we needed.”
When the first of the GRU operatives, a bald, muscular man with a scar along the side of his head, got within striking distance, he took Harvath down hard.
Wrenching his arm behind his back, he placed him in handcuffs, left him on the ground, and patted him down.
Relieving him of his Taser, he tossed it to a colleague who was going through his backpack.
Harvath heard the Russian word for spy several times as they laid out all of the contents, including his weapons, on the bench and examined them.
The man patting him down took his phone, his watch, his flashlight, all of his cash, and the two knives he was carrying. He then stood guard over him, placing his boot on top of his neck and pushing down with an unnecessary amount of force in order to create the maximum amount of pain possible.
It radiated throughout his skull. He had never felt anything like it.
Just as his vision was beginning to dim, Tretyakov yelled for the goon to knock it off.
The man dialed it back from an eleven to an eight. The pain was still white-hot. If he kept at it, Harvath was going to end up with permanent damage.
Tretyakov had to yell again. This time, the man obliged, removing his boot completely from Harvath’s neck. Then, when his boss wasn’t looking, he dug it into Harvath’s left shoulder blade, creating an all-new kind of agony.
As exquisite as the pain was, Harvath didn’t give the asshole the satisfaction of making a single sound.
Finally, they replaced everything in the backpack and Tretyakov gave the command to get Harvath to his feet. Asshole used the handcuffs to do it, adding even more injury to Harvath’s shoulders, particularly the left one. They then walked him back in the direction from where they had come.
At the cathedral, they turned left and walked toward the back, where several cars were parked.
The brutality of the Russians when it came to interrogations was legendary. If what had just happened to him was any indication, and he had every reason to believe it was, the nightmare hadn’t even started yet.
Everything he had ever been taught about escape and evasion flooded back into his brain. He knew that he had to keep his wits about him. If he lost his head, he might miss an opportunity.
Already, he had managed to reach down to the hem of his coat, tear the inside seam, and remove the plastic handcuff key he had sewn inside. All he needed now was an opportunity.
It would probably come once he was inside a car. Judging by the group of vehicles he was being led toward, they were all sedans. That meant the GRU team would have to split up. It also meant that Harvath would have fewer guards to deal with.
Stepping into the parking area, Harvath took a deep breath and tried to loosen his body. Extricating himself was going to be incredibly difficult. And, depending upon whether there were cars ahead of or behind his, he would probably have only seconds to decide which direction to run.
His chances for success were not good. Not only that, but all he could do at this point was escape. There was no way he could also take Tretyakov.
The operation was a failure, and it was his fault. Had he waited, had he not been so impulsive, it might have succeeded.
As these thoughts raced through his mind, Harvath didn’t realize that he had slowed down and was shuffling across the pavement.
The bald goon gave him a shove and that was when it happened. There was a crack, followed by a spray of blood as one of the GRU operatives went down.
CHAPTER 68
* * *
Harvath had time to unlock only one hand. Whipping his arm hard to the left, he used the open handcuff like a mace and tore a giant gash right across asshole’s forehead, nose, and cheek.
As the man’s hands flew to his face, Harvath pulled the GRU operative’s pistol from his holster and shot him twice in the chest and once in the head. Turning to the next operative, he did the same.
He turned to engage a third, but before he could, the man took two rounds to the head and dropped dead to the ground.
Looking around him, Harvath counted six bodies. There was blood and brains and bits of bone everywhere. As quickly as it had started, it was over. The GRU had been caught out in the open, without any cover or concealment. Each of the operatives had gotten his ticket punched.
The most important GRU person, though, was gone.
“Hurry!” Chase yelled, as he, Staelin, and Ashby stepped out from behind the vehicles. “Tretyakov took off!”
Harvath had no idea how they had gotten there, or how they h
ad set up such a quick ambush, but now wasn’t the time to ask.
Spinning around, he could see Tretyakov disappearing into the park’s trees.
The man had shed his briefcase and was running fast. Even with the head start, Harvath was confident that he could catch him, and he took off running.
This was what he had been training for. All the squats, all the hellacious early morning runs, all the wind sprints, and all the Hulk Sauce—it all came down to this. He had pushed his body to the limit so that when it counted most, he could prove he was not only still in the game, but deserved to be here.
With every stride he grew closer. Tretyakov didn’t stand a chance. Short of turning around and firing a gun at him, which he would have done by now if he could, Harvath had him.
Twice, the man had looked over his shoulder and the fear was evident in his face. Gone was the cool customer on the bench. He had been replaced by a scared animal, running for its life. The apex predator was in his prime and was about to prove once again why he occupied the top of the pyramid. Harvath had never felt as alive, as purposeful, as he did at that moment. He had this, and a smile swept across his face.
Then he heard the roar of a car engine, followed by a quick double-tap on a horn. As Sloane raced past him in one of the GRU sedans, she winked and flashed him the thumbs-up.
Rocketing ahead of Harvath, she caught up to Tretyakov, jerked the wheel quickly to the right, and sent him tumbling across the ground.
When he got to them, she already had him Flex-Cuffed.
“You can make goo-goo eyes at him later,” she cracked, as he stood there, mouth slightly agape. “Come on. Help me get him into the car.”
Harvath obliged, and after seat-belting him in, hopped in the back with him.
“We gone,” stated Sloane, peeling out before Harvath’s door was even closed.
