by Brad Thor
Harvath had a feeling he knew where this was going, but he opened the barn door anyway. “Go ahead.”
“Back at my house, were you really prepared to torture me?”
Harvath didn’t flinch. “One hundred percent. And if the situation were reversed, Carl would have been too. As someone put it to me recently, the Russians are animals. Not the people, per se, but the people in power. And those who serve the people in power. You are on the front lines here. I’m sure you know that. And I’m sure that Carl told you that.”
“Repeatedly,” said the VSD man.
“You need to act like it. Every day. Every hour. Every moment. They’re coming for your country. They will get to pick the time and the place. The only thing you get to pick is how well prepared you’ll be. It sucks, and so is what we’re about to do, but it is what it is. Sometimes, the fight chooses us.”
Idling in the parking spot, he waited until Sølvi had pulled up, parked behind him, and joined them in the Land Cruiser.
The first thing she noticed was that Harvath had given Landsbergis his Glock back. “You two seem to be getting along well,” she commented.
“We’re all good here,” Harvath replied. “Now, let’s take a few minutes and discuss how this is going to go down.”
For the next ten minutes, he went over his plan, as well as the contingencies they’d need to execute if anything went wrong. As seasoned intelligence operatives, all three of them understood the risks.
When they were done with their discussion, Harvath put the Land Cruiser in gear and eased out into traffic. He wanted to do another drive-by of their objective.
The sun was setting and lights were already coming on inside. Pedestrians moved up and down the sidewalk. What they could see of the inner courtyard through the wrought iron gates was empty. If there were any vehicles present, they must have been down in the underground parking structure.
For all intents and purposes, it was quiet—which was exactly how Harvath had hoped to find it.
Turning right at the next intersection, he followed the street until he could make another right, and then found a parking space halfway up the block. Before they did anything else, he wanted to deploy the drone.
Getting out of the Land Cruiser he walked back to the rear of the SUV and popped the hatch. Checking the main battery sitting in the charger, he was disappointed. He had hoped it would charge faster. In the time since they had left the woods near Landsbergis’s house, only 12 percent of the power had been replenished. He was going to have to rely on the smaller battery.
Powering up the drone, he brought up its app on his phone and waited for the diagnostics to display. As soon as they did, he grew angry.
The smaller, backup battery only had 4 percent power. Whoever had used the drone last hadn’t fully recharged it before turning it back in.
Ultimately, it was his fault. As a SEAL, he had been trained to check all of his equipment before taking it into the field. Just because the CIA Director had personally handed everything to him didn’t mean Harvath was absolved of making sure each item was topped off and in perfect working order.
He was not going to be able to leave the drone on station overhead the way he had at Landsbergis’s. There just wasn’t enough power in either battery. He had just lost an incredibly valuable tool.
The best he was going to be able to do was to conduct an overflight now and hope to get a feel for the inner courtyard, as well as a look at the rooftop—along with the adjacent buildings—and maybe a peek in a few of the windows.
It would all be good reconnaissance material, more than he was normally used to having. But being blind while they were inside, just because the damn battery hadn’t been charged, galled him. That was the kind of simple mistake that could end up getting people killed.
Launching the drone, he got back into the Land Cruiser so that they could all watch the feed together.
Nicholas was also watching from his perch back in the U.S. It was more out of loyalty to Harvath than anything else. He knew the drone didn’t have enough juice to be part of the next phase, but on the off chance that he might notice something during the reconnaissance, he wanted to be there for his friend. Anything, no matter how small, that might lend Harvath an advantage was valuable.
The cameras around the building were way out of date—more for show than anything else. None of them had infrared capabilities. The only areas they’d be able to pick up were those that were strategically lit by security lamps bolted to the structure’s façade. As long as the drone stayed out of the light, it would likely go undetected.
The small embassy compound, with its crumbling rooftop antenna array and rusted, oversized satellite dishes, looked like it had been frozen in time at the very height of the Cold War. If, at that moment, a couple of Soviet apparatchiks had stumbled into the courtyard for a smoke and a hit from a bottle of vodka hidden in the bushes, it would have looked absolutely normal.
Instead, all they saw were cobblestones, chipped plaster, and peeling paint. If real estate was all about location, location, location—that was definitely all that this place was about.
Harvath had the drone increase its altitude so they could get a better look at the roof. Beyond the aforementioned radio antennas and satellite dishes, there wasn’t much to see.
The adjacent rooftops were steep and clad with smooth red-clay tiles. If things went wrong and that was their only means of escape, they were going to be in a lot of trouble.
Carefully directing the drone, he had it begin peeking in the windows. All of them, though, were covered—either by aluminum blinds in the office areas or shades or draperies in the residential portions. There was nothing left to see and so he recalled it.
The drone set down in the middle of the street, just next to the Land Cruiser. Harvath hopped out, repacked it in its case, and secured it in the cargo area.
Closing the hatch, he looked up at the sky that only minutes ago had been a deep purple. Much like his mood, it was transitioning rapidly from dark blue to black. This wasn’t going to be an easy night. There was a lot they were about to do that he didn’t like.
For starters, both the CIA Director and the President had told him—in no uncertain terms—that he was absolutely forbidden from doing it. Lawlor, whose call he had ignored because he was too busy talking with Landsbergis on the drive in, had also sent him a series of angry texts telling him to stand down. Only Nicholas had been on board.
Getting back into the driver’s seat, Harvath looked at Sølvi, then Landsbergis, and said, “Let’s go over the plan one last time.”
CHAPTER 33
Harvath didn’t need to speak Lithuanian to understand that Andriejus Simulik was pissed off. Really pissed off.
As Director of the VSD, he expected all of his people—even one as high-ranking as Landsbergis—to strictly follow agency protocols and, at the very least, to practice basic tradecraft. Bringing an American intelligence operative, unannounced and uninvited, to his home violated every rule in the book.
Bring him to the office, bring him to a restaurant, use a safe house—hell, set up the meeting at a fucking park bench, he didn’t care. Revealing where he lived, though, and not giving him time to prepare was unforgivable.
Nevertheless, he buzzed them in and, as the gates swung open, ordered them to leave the vehicle in the underground parking area.
Harvath wasn’t crazy about the idea. He had planned for Sølvi to remain with the Land Cruiser in the courtyard. Without the drone, they needed an extra set of eyes outside. He was also worried that if Simulik was guilty, having a member of the Norwegian Intelligence Service suddenly turn up was only going to spook him. There was no telling what he might do.
Harvath’s presence wasn’t that much better, but at least he was a known commodity to the VSD Director. And that had figured heavily into his plan.
He hadn’t wanted to wait until tomorrow to set up a meeting someplace else. All that would have done was give Simulik a chance
to plot against him. He needed to take him by surprise and catch him off balance. To do that he needed a pretext for why it had to be tonight and had to be at the Director’s house. He needed to dangle something so valuable that the man would take the bait, agree to a meeting, and buzz them in. He decided to play one of the best and most authentic cards he had.
It told him a lot that after beating the information about Kaliningrad out of Lukša, the Russians hadn’t gone to Landsbergis. They had gone to his boss. In Harvath’s mind, that could only mean one thing—the VSD Director was already compromised.
The Russians didn’t need to waste any time leaning on Landsbergis. They told Simulik to get them the information they wanted and he had done it.
According to Landsbergis, on what he now understood to be the day after Lukša had been beaten, his boss had called him into his office at the State Security Department for a chat.
There were rumors that Lithuania had assisted in a foreign operation that had taken place in Kaliningrad. The President wanted a full briefing on it. If Landsbergis knew anything about it, said Simulik, now was the time to come clean. If he didn’t tell him everything he knew, the VSD Director wasn’t going to be able to protect him.
At the time, Landsbergis explained to Harvath, it had seemed odd that Simulik had focused in on him. Only with knowledge that the Russians had tortured Lukša did things make sense.
Simulik had a pretty good understanding of what had taken place, which obviously had been provided to him by the Russians, and Landsbergis had come clean—giving him the rest. After that, his boss never mentioned it again.
What Landsbergis didn’t know was who the target of Harvath’s snatch-and-grab operation in Kaliningrad had been. That was the bait that had been dangled to get the VSD Director to open up his gates.
The Russians were desperate for any information about Oleg Tretyakov, their head of covert activities for Eastern Europe. Moscow wanted to know if he was still alive, where the Americans had been keeping him, and how much he had revealed.
When Landsbergis explained that not only was Harvath in the car, but that he also had information gleaned from the recent operation vital to Lithuanian national security, there was no way Simulik could resist the meeting.
Harvath had put his plan together on the fly, but it had worked. They were inside the compound. The rest, he hoped, would be even easier now.
According to Landsbergis, Simulik lived in the home alone—his wife having left him several years ago. There were no security guards and the VSD Director did not have an overnight personal protection detail.
Pulling into the garage, Harvath took note of the cameras. “If he has no on-site staff, who watches all of these?” he asked.
“The interior cameras are either broken or disconnected,” said Landsbergis. “The few outside that function feed into a screen in his study.”
There were two cars parked in the garage—a Mercedes sedan and a BMW convertible, as well as a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, all of which, per Landsbergis, belonged to Simulik.
Harvath parked near the stairwell door that led up into the building. Sølvi, who had been lying down, out of sight, on the backseat, sat up.
“I think we need to rethink your plan,” she said. “I’m not going to sit down here and watch a garage while you’re upstairs with the guy who got Carl killed.”
“The pin has already been pulled from the grenade.”
“Then put it back in. I’m going with you.”
“Listen,” Harvath replied, “I promise you that if he’s guilty, I’ll give you a chance to confront him. We both want the same thing. I know what I’m doing. Let me go do it.”
Sølvi wanted to be there. She wanted to watch the entire thing unfold. She understood, though, why Harvath wanted to handle it the way he did. “As soon as you have something, I want to know.”
“Understood,” he said. “And if you see anything at all that doesn’t look right, I want to know. Okay?”
The Norwegian nodded and Harvath signaled for Landsbergis that it was time to go.
Climbing out of the Land Cruiser, Harvath let the Lithuanian lead the way. They had been over this part of the plan several times. Everything had to go perfectly. If any part went wrong, Harvath was screwed.
By just making contact with the VSD Director, he was in direct contradiction of a presidential order. Not only was he told not to make contact, he was also told that under no circumstances was he to lay a hand on Simulik.
In for a penny, in for a pound, he figured. And, as he had told Sølvi, the pin had already been pulled. Full steam ahead.
Once the door into the stairwell was buzzed open, they went up to the second floor. The place was an absolute dump. The VSD Director must have been putting every paycheck, along with any payoffs he was getting from the Russians, into his mortgage, car, and motorcycle payments. He certainly wasn’t spending any money on housekeepers or interior decorators.
Apparently, it was a fixer-upper and Simulik was doing all the fixing himself. Here and there, Harvath could see places where the man had replaced a window or a run of crown molding, the new pieces waiting to be primed and painted.
It wasn’t living in squalor—Harvath had seen worse—but if this was Simulik’s weekend gig, the job was going to take him two lifetimes. He had definitely bitten off more than he could chew.
All things being equal, though, his remodeling problems were the least of his worries. He was about to come face-to-face with the one person even the Grim Reaper didn’t want to see at the other end of a dark alley.
At the end of the dimly lit, stained, carpeted hallway, light spilled from an open doorway. That’s where they were headed.
Harvath had never met Andriejus Simulik, but he had heard about him. Carl didn’t think the guy was worth two bits. Lithuania, in Pedersen’s estimation, deserved much better. That was why he had chosen to work with Landsbergis. Someday, he had hoped that the younger Lithuanian would ascend to the directorship of the VSD. Anyone would be better than Simulik. Landsbergis in his estimation would be exceptional. Just based on the little bit of him Harvath had seen, he agreed.
As they approached Simulik’s study, Landsbergis didn’t break stride. There was an air of resolute determination to him as he led the way. So much so, that Harvath couldn’t help but wonder if Landsbergis had been harboring suspicions about his boss long before this night.
Just before the doorway, the VSD man slowed, composed himself, and then stepped inside. Harvath, right on his six, stepped into the room behind him.
CHAPTER 34
Andriejus Simulik was a thick man who sat behind an even thicker desk. He was still dressed in his suit from his day at the office. His flabby jowls hung over his buttoned collar as well as the sloppy knot of his red silk tie.
His gray hair was longer than it should have been for a civil servant, not to mention a man of his age. Flakes of dandruff peppered the shoulders of his jacket.
Atop the credenza behind him, a martini station was on display. Judging by the half-empty pitcher, cocktail hour was already in full swing.
“Right there,” the VSD Director ordered, pointing his guests as they entered to the two worn, antique velvet chairs in front of his desk.
Once they were seated, he said, “After everything that has happened, you’ve got a lot of nerve coming back to our country. We should have sent a démarche to your ambassador.”
A démarche was the diplomatic community’s equivalent of a harshly worded letter, usually protesting or objecting to something another government had done.
In this case, though, there hadn’t been a démarche. Simulik—likely at the request of the Russians—hadn’t said or written a damn thing. In fact, Harvath was fairly certain that Landsbergis and his director were the only two people at the VSD who knew anything about the operation in Kaliningrad and Lithuania’s involvement. Simulik was all talk.
He was also twitchy, or possibly paranoid, as hell. He couldn’t keep his eyes fr
om flicking to the large computer monitor on his desk. Though Harvath couldn’t see what he was looking at, he assumed it was the feeds from his CCTV cameras.
Carl was right about this guy. Harvath had been in the room less than a minute and he already despised him.
He would need to keep reminding himself, though, that if it came to it, he had promised not to kill him before Sølvi had been allowed a crack at him. A promise, after all, was a promise.
“So why am I talking with you, Mr. Harvath? Why are you here?”
“Recently, I paid the Russians a visit in Kaliningrad. When I left, I took something that belongs to them.”
Simulik raised an eyebrow. “Took something or took someone.”
Harvath smiled. “You’re familiar with the operation, then.”
“Nothing happens in my corner of the world without me knowing about it.”
This guy was so full of shit, it was unbelievable. Not only was he full of it, he was also proud of it. Harvath was willing to bet he didn’t know a quarter of what was going on in his “corner of the world.”
“Two weeks ago, a team of Russians—one with a fancy Vandyke—paid a visit to a Lithuanian citizen named—”
Harvath stopped speaking mid-sentence. A distinct change had come over both men. Simulik’s eyes had stopped shifting to his computer monitor, while off to his right, Landsbergis had stiffened.
“Black hair and a Vandyke?” the younger VSD man asked.
Harvath nodded. “Sounds like you know him.”
“Sergei Guryev. Russian Military Intelligence. Works out of their embassy here in Vilnius.”
“How about one of his colleagues—large man, shaved head, big red beard?”
“Alexander Kovalyov. Also GRU from the embassy.”
“I’m going to assume that the other two leg-breakers who were with them are similarly employed.”
“That’s probably a safe bet.”
“What does any of this have to do with information critical to Lithuanian national security?” Simulik interrupted, growing annoyed. “After all, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
