State of the Union

by Brad Thor

  Alexandra asked, “Do you know how long it took us to get inside that group?”

  “Probably longer than for us to take them out.”

  “That is not amusing, Agent Harvath.”

  “I think it is. You want to blame me for things I had absolutely no control over. While you’re at it, why don’t you talk about the 1980 Winter Olympics and how I blew it for the Soviet hockey team and handed the Americans theMiracle on Ice .”

  “I think we’re done here,” said Alexandra, pushing her chair back.

  Things were quickly falling apart. “Wait a second,” offered Harvath, getting himself back under control. “I apologize. You lost an operative and had a serious investigation compromised. That’s not something to make jokes about.”

  “You’re right, it’s not,” replied Ivanova.

  “Then why don’t we get back to the matter at hand?”

  “The information my father may have had.”

  “Exactly, although it’s not a question of whether he may have had it or not. We know he did.”

  “You mean,now you know he did.”

  Harvath understood the anger she felt on behalf of her father for having been rebuked and subsequently disavowed, but that didn’t mean that her obstinacy wasn’t getting under his skin. He reminded himself of why he was there and what he was after—what hung in the balance. “Your father had information about a plot by five Russian generals to take the United States hostage.”

  “Is that how your country is viewing it? As ahostage situation? How very American.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Scot.

  “I always understood that a hostage situation involved the potential for bargaining. From what I understand, the goal was the complete and total surrender of the United States.”

  “So your father did take you into his confidence.”

  Not until he had died, thought Alexandra, but that was none of Harvath’s business. “Your code name is Norseman, is it not?” she asked.

  “What does my code name have to do with anything?”

  “Are you familiar with the Russian word,Varangians ?” she continued.

  “My knowledge of Russian is somewhat limited.”

  “Varangiansis our name for the Norse princes invited in to restore order to Russia in the Middle Ages. We don’t need any more Norsemen here. We can solve our own problems.”

  Harvath had finally had it with her. “This isn’t just your problem, it’sour problem. If we don’t do something, these men are going to start World War III.”

  “Who says I’m not doing something?” asked Alexandra.

  “I don’t know. I have no idea what you’re doing because you haven’t told me anything. Do you mean you and the FSB are aware of what the generals are up to and are working to put a stop to it?”

  “I’m not certain if the FSB is aware of what is going on or not. I am sure that at some level there is knowledge of the plan. After all, our esteemed Russian president was once the head of the FSB’s predecessor.”

  “You’re saying the Russian president is a part of all of this?”

  “Of course he is, but there are layers of what in America you callplausible deniability to keep him isolated.”

  Harvath was shocked. “And you approve of what they’re doing?”

  Ivanova pulled her chair back up to the table and got right in Scot’s face. “No, I do not approve,” she snapped. “It is unquestionably the worst thing my country could ever undertake. It is an insane plan hatched by insane old men from an entirely different era. They might as well be from another planet for all the sense this makes, but the plan has already been put into action and there’s nothing you can do about that.”

  “The hell there isn’t,” replied Harvath.

  “Oh, really? What are you going to do?”

  “Whatever it takes to stop them.”

  “Good luck,” responded Alexandra, sliding her chair away from the table again.

  “Wait a second. You said you thought this was the worst thing Russia could ever undertake.”

  “And I meant it.”

  “So why aren’t you doing something?”

  “I am. On my own.”

  She wasn’t making any sense. “Then what did you mean by now that the plan has been put into action, there’s nothing we can do about it?”

  “I said there’s nothingyou can do about it.”

  “Okay, hold on a second. We keep losing focus here.”

  “I’m losing nothing, Agent Harvath, except my patience with having my time wasted.”

  “I understand,” replied Scot. “I can see, after what happened to your father, regardless of who was responsible for the leak, why you would be reluctant to tell me what you know.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yes, I can, but we need to work together on this.”

  “Why is that? Do you have some sort of information that may prove helpful to me?”

  “Maybe,” replied Harvath.

  “I think you’re lying. I don’t think you have anything at all to offer. If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

  She was right. She had him. She was his only lead. He needed to get her to cooperate. “No matter what you think, you can’t do this alone. I can help you.”

  “There’s one small problem, though,” said Ivanova.

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “But you don’t even know me.”

  “You’re an American, and that’s enough for me.”

  “Then why even agree to meet with me?” asked Harvath.

  “Because I wanted to see the look on your face when I told youno .”

  “What? Because of Istanbul?”

  “No. When I said yes to the meeting, I had no idea they were sending you.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I’ll tell you what it was. I wanted to look into the eyes of an American, a representative of thegreat United States and see that the only reason his country had sent him to me was because it had been humbled and had nowhere else to turn. I wanted to see your government finally admit that they had made a mistake with my father.”

  “So this is about revenge?”

  “No, it is about satisfaction.”

  “Satisfaction?How much satisfaction are you going to feel if millions of innocent people, both in America and Russia, end up getting killed because your petty resentment prevented you from doing the right thing?”

  “I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “And neither am I. As strange as it sounds, you and I are playing for different teams, but we’re both on the same side. We can accomplish more by working together than we can apart.”

  “We have a saying in Russian,” said Alexandra, as she stood up from her chair. “Having been burnt by milk, one blows on vodka.”

  “Once burned, twice shy,” responded Scot.

  “Exactly. I plan to continue blowing on my vodka. Goodbye, Agent Harvath, and good luck.”

  Alexandra Ivanova turned and exited the Hermitage Café, leaving Harvath with only one option.

  Chapter 40

  B ecause of St. Petersburg’s northern latitude, the sun set very early in winter. Often, the arrival of evening was accompanied by brutally cold winds and this evening was no exception.

  The sky was completely dark when Harvath collected his pack and followed Alexandra Ivanova out of the Hermitage. She appeared to be wandering aimlessly, which considering the weather made no sense. After strolling the famous Nevsky Prospekt and browsing in several shops, she backtracked and made her way toward the beautiful onion-domed Church of the Resurrection of Christ. Harvath waited several moments and then entered, staying hidden in the back where he could continue to observe her. Though it wasn’t as warm as the Hermitage had been, he was happy to at least be out of the cold.

  After lighting a candle, Ivanova sat down by herself on one of the long pews in the center and closed her eyes. At first, Harvath thou
ght maybe she had come to pray, but as she repeatedly stole furtive glances at her watch, he realized what she was really doing was killing time. Either someone was coming to meet her, or something else was going on.

  Harvath watched as a stream of worshippers and tourists moved through the church, each guided by their own calling, but none of them tried to make contact with Ivanova. After an hour had passed, she glanced at her watch one final time and then stood up and walked slowly to the exit.

  By the time she emerged, Harvath was already secreted on the edge of the small esplanade waiting for her. When she hailed a nearby cab, Harvath quickly followed suit, telling the driver in his somewhat passable Russian, “slyedooytyeh ta jensh-cheena.”Follow that woman .

  They came to a stop in a neighborhood of run-down factories lying cheek by jowl. Up ahead, Harvath could see a line of people standing in the cold beneath a brushed aluminum sign that readbreathe .

  Harvath watched as Ivanova walked to the front of the line, said something to the bouncer and was granted admittance to the club. Once she was inside, Harvath paid the fare and climbed out of the cab. He waited until the cabbie had driven away before casing the perimeter of the building and finding a place to hide his backpack. Bypassing the line just as Ivanova had done, Harvath approached the bouncer, slipped him a hundred-dollar bill and asked if it was possible to get a table.

  The bouncer showed Harvath inside where a scantily clad hostess led him to a table, presented him with a menu, and wished him a pleasant evening.

  Glancing around the crowded nightclub, Harvath could see that it had once been a foundry or a factory of some sort. The focal point was an enormous riveted vat with large portholes, around which the bar had been built. Harvath could see patrons with masks clasped to their faces indulging in the latest trend to sweep Russia—scented oxygen.

  When the waitress arrived to take his order, Harvath was tempted to ask for a martini, but thought better of it when he realized the ice would be made from St. Petersburg’s foul-smelling, foul-tasting, pollutant-laden, giardia-infested water. Russian vodka could kill a hell of a lot, but Harvath doubted it could conquer what crawled out of local spigots. He opted for a beer instead.

  By the time hisVena Porter arrived, Harvath had politely chased off three hookers. Obviously, word had quickly spread that there was a wealthy American at table number one. Knowing that it was much more difficult to hit a moving target, he left some money for his drink and got up to check out the rest of the club.

  The clientele were all New Russians, sporting the latest in trendy designer fashions. While Ivanova’s outfit had seemed a bit much at the Hermitage Café, now it made complete sense. Though she was a tall gorgeous blond, there were a lot of tall gorgeous blonds here and she was proving very hard to locate. Harvath tried to put himself in her shoes. If he was going to conduct a clandestine meeting in a crowded, noisy nightclub, he’d want to position himself somewhere on the fringes of the action, someplace with the best view possible, yet concealed enough so that the meeting wouldn’t draw any undue attention.

  Harvath approached the large dance floor and kept his attention on the clusters of seating areas on the other side. The DJ had just begun spinning “One Nation Under a Groove” by George Clinton and the Funkadelics when the crowd parted and Harvath caught a glimpse of Ivanova. She was sitting in a somewhat secluded booth and had just been joined by a middle-aged man in a bad suit with an even worse comb-over. He looked like he’d be more at home at a book binding convention than at a hip Russian nightclub, but whoever he was, Ivanova had gone to a lot of trouble to meet him and therefore Harvath wanted to meet him too.

  He worked his way around the edge of the dance floor, trying to move through the thick crowd but as he got about halfway to the booth, something was wrong. Ivanova had disappeared.

  Moments later a voice from behind said, “Why am I not surprised?” as Harvath felt something hard jabbed into his back.

  “Of all the oxygen bars in all the towns in all the world—” he mumbled as he looked over his shoulder and saw Alexandra using her coat to hide the gun she was holding.

  “Quiet,” she replied, turning him around. “I had a feeling I was being followed.”

  “Guilty,” replied Harvath, as he tried to put on his most charming smile, “but now that I’m here, how about introducing me to your friend in the booth?”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?” said Ivanova as she scanned the crowded dance floor. “If I let you go, you’ll hang around and wait for him, won’t you?”

  “Probably,” replied Harvath as he watched Alexandra scan the dance floor yet again. She seemed nervous and very tightly wound. “Are you expecting somebody else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bad events seemed to radiate a certain electricity that Harvath was often able to pick up on. The hair on the back of his neck began to rise and seconds later he heard someone scream.

  Alexandra wasted no time. She pulled the silenced Walther P4 from beneath her coat and ran for the booth.

  When she finally fought her way through the crowd, she found the man in the bad suit laying slumped in the booth and bleeding profusely from several stab wounds to his neck and chest. It was soon complete pandemonium, with patrons screaming and running toward the front of the club. Not knowing how close the attacker was, Alexandra turned and swept her weapon back and forth, looking for any face in the crowd that didn’t look right.

  Harvath was only two steps behind her. He arrived at the booth with his H&K drawn and he Ivanova both saw the attacker at the same time, but it was too late. Expertly using the stampeding crowd as cover, the man smiled before disappearing into the sea of rushing people. Harvath had seen the man’s face before. It was the same man who had pulled off the attack at the King George, but how could he have followed Harvath all the way to St. Petersburg?It was impossible.

  Harvath glanced at the man slumped in the booth and leaned in to feel for his pulse. It was very weak, and Scot was taken by surprise when the man suddenly reached out and beseechingly grabbed for his arm. He told him to stay calm, that help would be there soon, but the man just shook his head. He withdrew something from his pocket and pressed it into Harvath’s hand. He opened his mouth to speak and but collapsed before he could get the words out. Harvath once again felt for the man’s pulse, but there was none. He was dead.

  “Cover Nesterov!” Ivanova said as she kept her weapon trained on the quickly dissipating pack of fleeing customers.

  “There’s nothing to cover,” replied Harvath as he stepped away from the booth. “He’s dead.”

  “Damn it,” swore Ivanova.

  Who was he?”

  “A scientist.”

  “What was he working on?”

  “It’s not important now.”

  “Not important? Obviously somebody thought it was important enough to kill him over. Do you have any idea who was shooting at us?”

  Ivanova stood and said, “Russian military.”

  “Well that makes sense,” responded Harvath.

  “If you knew the depth of what was going on here, itwould make sense,” snapped Ivanova.

  “I think I understand well enough. The man who killed your scientist, I’ve seen him before. He tried to kill me two nights ago in Berlin.”

  “Helmut Draegar was in Berlin? What was he doing there?”

  Harvath was floored. Gary Lawlor hadn’t been ranting. He had been trying to warn him. “That doesn’t make any sense,” continued Harvath. “Helmut Draegar was killed fifteen years ago.”

  “You don’t know very much, do you?”

  “Why don’t you fill me in?”

  “There’s no time,” replied Ivanova, as she nervously scanned the room.

  Harvath could hear what sounded like several men in heavy boots making their way toward them.Probably the club’s bouncers coming to investigate . “We need to get out of here.”

  “We can’t. Not yet,” replied Ivanova, turning back to the b
ooth. “I need to check his pockets. He was supposed to have something for me.”

  “Like this?” said Harvath, holding up the folded piece of paper Nesterov had given him.

  Alexandra couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “It looks like we’re going to be working together after all,” said Harvath as he grabbed her arm. “Now let’s move.”

  Chapter 41

  A fter leaving the oxygen bar and retrieving Harvath’s backpack, Scot and Alexandra looked for a place to rest and decide what their next move would be. The Hotel Oktyabrskaya was situated in a busy neighborhood just across from St. Petersburg’s Moskovsky railway station and was a perfect place for them to hole up while they waited for morning.

  Harvath grabbed a pen and a small pad of paper from next to the telephone in the bedroom and began to reexamine Nesterov’s note. After several minutes replacing the Cyrillic letters with corresponding characters from the English alphabet and rearranging bits and pieces in the lines of text, Harvath could finally read it. “Universal Transverse Mercator.”

  “Mercator?As in latitude and longitude?”

  “Exactly. Hours, minutes and seconds both north and east. What we’re looking at is a Geo coordinate.”

  “A Geo coordinate for where? What does it point to?”

  “According to his note,” replied Harvath, “somebody named Albert.”

  “Ring any bells?”

  “None at all,” said Alexandra.

  Harvath set the note aside. “Then the first thing we need to do is to pinpoint those coordinates.”

  “There’s a twenty-four-hour internet café in St. Petersburg calledQuo Vadis . All we’d have to do is get on line with one of their computers and find a web site where we can enter in the coordinates.”

  “I don’t like it. With those networked systems it’s too hard to erase your tracks. We’d be leaving a trail of electronic breadcrumbs. Isn’t there a bookshop on the Nevsky Prospekt across from the Kazan Cathedral?”

  “Yes, it’s called the Dom Knigi.”

  “Good,” said Harvath. “We’ll wait until a half hour after they’ve opened and then go in separately. I’m going to buy a couple of books, one of which will be an atlas and you are going to go to their stationary section and buy some pencils, a notebook and most importantly, a ruler.”