by Brad Thor
“In part,” he replied. “Now you tell me something I don’t know. What the hell are you doing here?”
Alexandra drew a deep breath and let it out, slowly. “ISIS.”
Harvath waited a beat, but when she didn’t continue, he said, “Keep going.”
She lowered her head. Shame? Embarrassment? He wasn’t sure, but right now he didn’t care. He wanted answers.
“The largest contingent of non-Arab ISIS fighters is made up of Russian speakers. Chechnya, Dagestan . . . I could keep going, but you get the point.”
Harvath certainly did get the point. Foreign jihadists, Chechens in particular, had flooded into Iraq during the war like a pustulent, festering sore that had been popped with a red-hot needle.
The Chechens had brain-dumped into the Iraqi resistance all the devious and deadly techniques they had developed fighting the Russians. It had been a huge game-changer and the American death toll had soared. People Harvath knew and cared about had been killed. He hated the fucking Chechens.
They had cycled their fighters through Iraq, they had gotten real battlefield experience, and then they had returned to Russia to kill.
“It’s Iraq all over again,” said Harvath. “You’re worried they’ll come back and cause trouble at home.”
Alexandra nodded. “It would be very bad for Russia.”
“Bad for Russia? Or the Russian government?”
“When innocent Russians get killed, it’s bad for Russia. That’s what I care about. The Russian government can kiss its own ass.”
After all this time, she hadn’t changed. She was still the same woman. The government had screwed her father—also an intelligence operative—and she still hadn’t forgiven them. She cared about her people and her country. Her government could go to hell—or, as she had said, kiss its own ass.
Hopefully, Harvath could still trust her. “I’m waiting for you to tell me something I don’t know. Why are you here? What drew you to Malevsky?”
She took a moment to compose her thoughts and then said, “He’s part of their finance mechanism.”
“Malevsky?”
Alexandra nodded. “He helps them get things they need. Medicine, night-vision goggles, parts for their aircraft.”
“What’s in it for him?”
“A bottomless well of priceless antiquities.”
Harvath felt a knot form in the center of his chest. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Seriously? The Moscow syndicate has been moving billions in priceless artifacts for ISIS. They move it out of Syria and Iraq up into Europe and Russia.”
It was like someone had punched a hole right through the center of him. “Smugglers.”
“Some of the best.”
“What else do they move?” he asked.
Alexandra smiled. “Weapons—lots and lots of weapons. And not just low-end items like rifles and RPGs. They also move serious high-tech product. Ground-to-air missiles, air-to-air missiles—they are a high-speed operation.”
The knot in Harvath’s chest was spreading. “How did they move it?”
She reflected for a moment and said, “Most of the artifacts come through Turkey, hidden in ISIS oil tankers.”
“No. The weapons. How’d they move the weapons?”
Alexandra laughed. “They were actually very clever. They allegedly had a Muslim doctor on their payroll. He was able to exploit countless medical relief missions and convoys. The Red Crescent. The United Nations. You name it.”
Harvath, who had never had a weak stomach in his life, suddenly felt like he wanted throw up.
CHAPTER 29
It was all happening way too fast. What she was asking was way too dangerous. And it was off-the-charts stupid. They needed to take a breath. Step back and take a breath. Take a minute and assess. But they didn’t have a minute.
“I’m only giving you one shot,” Alexandra said. “So make it count.”
Harvath drew back his hand and struck her, hard. She bounced off the nightstand and the bedframe as she fell down. Her nose bled profusely.
He reached down and pulled her panties away with a snap. Tucking them in his pocket, he then ripped off her bra and dropped it next to her. She’d had her own idea of how she wanted her lipstick to smear, and he’d already given in. It was the least he could do.
Rubbing it off his mouth and onto his sleeve, he exited her room and headed down the back stairs. Outside, he found the bald man’s corpse right where he had left it. He transferred Alexandra’s panties to one of the man’s pockets. After getting a SITREP that showed everything was clear, he then ran like hell.
Out of breath and near the edge of the property, he reached back to the United States. “Round Top, this is Norseman.”
“Go ahead, Norseman.”
“Coming out.”
“Roger that, Norseman. On your command.”
“Do it now.”
“Roger that, Norseman,” the command center replied as they scrambled the satellite signal from the ground sensors. “You are good to go.”
As he scrambled up the boulders, the sharp pieces of rock slashed at him, but he kept his footing and kept moving forward.
Bursting from the trees at the top of the ridge, he took Herman by surprise. “Let’s go,” he ordered. “Let’s fucking go.”
“Are you okay?” Herman said. “What happened?”
Harvath collapsed in the passenger seat and managed to shut the door. “Drive,” he said.
“But—”
“Just drive!” Harvath snapped.
Herman did as he was told.
• • •
Minding the speed limits, stopping where indicated, and not giving local law enforcement any reason to pull them over, Herman returned them to the farm.
He pulled in next to Harvath’s car behind the barn and said, “You want to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
That was all he said. Climbing out of the car, he shut the door with a reasonable amount of force and headed toward the farmhouse.
Herman sat there for several minutes wondering what he should do. Finally, he turned off the engine and followed him inside.
He found Harvath sitting near the fireplace, a glass in his hand with two fingers of bourbon over ice.
“Ready to talk?”
Harvath didn’t respond.
The giant shook his head, walked back to the kitchen, and got himself a drink.
Returning to the living room, he took an adjacent chair and sat down. He didn’t care if Harvath didn’t want to talk. They could play the silent game for hours. His friend shouldn’t be alone.
Harvath came to the end of his bourbon and started to rise. Herman waved for him to remain seated.
The German returned moments later with the bottle and a bucket of ice. Harvath refilled his glass. Apparently, they would not be putting a bag over Mikhail Malevsky’s head tonight. And so, Herman had poured himself another drink too.
They continued until the bottle was empty. Herman tossed it into the fire. It shattered and the flames leapt.
“Music?” Herman asked, buzzed.
Harvath didn’t reply. He sat and stared at the fire.
Herman found his iPhone and pulled up a random playlist. Seconds later, Don McLean’s “American Pie” began.
Harvath’s eyes closed and Herman was worried he had done something wrong.
“Why’d you pick this?” Harvath asked.
“I don’t know,” his friend said. “I like it. It’s a good song.”
Harvath’s eyes remained closed, “Do you know what it’s about?”
Herman shrugged. “The day the music died. The death of Buddy Holly.”
“It was actually a warning.”
“A warning? About what?”
“About the future and what was coming if America didn’t wake up.”
Herman looked at his friend. “What the hell happened tonight?”
Harvath didn’t respond. He seemed content to listen to the music. Herman decided to leave him alone.
Throwing another log on the fire, Herman sat back and sipped his drink. When Harvath wanted to talk, he’d talk.
Half an hour had passed when Harvath began counting something on his fingers. “What are you doing?” Herman asked.
“Counting.”
“I can see that,” the German replied. “What are you counting?”
“How many people I got killed.”
“Over your career, or just recently?”
“Just recently,” Harvath answered. It was deadpan, without any emotion.
“What’s the number?”
“Thirteen,” he said. “And still going up.”
“And still going up,” Herman repeated. “Does that mean you’re still in the fight?”
Harvath nodded.
His friend leaned forward. “What the hell happened tonight?”
For a moment, Harvath looked like he had no idea how to answer the question. His mind was somewhere else, drifting. “I got played,” he finally explained.
“Played? What are you talking about?”
“I blew the number one rule in the intelligence game—don’t get played.”
Herman looked at him. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I had what I thought was an incredible asset,” Harvath replied shaking his head. “A doctor from North Africa. He was moonlighting as a smuggler. His name was Salah Abaaoud. He produced some incredible intel for us. Turns out, he worked for Malevsky.”
“And thereby,” said Herman, “the GRU.”
Harvath nodded. “The CIA team we staged in Anbar to nail a high-value ISIS target? That was based on intel developed through Salah.”
“Why would the Russians want a CIA team wiped out?”
“It’s not just the CIA team. Salah is dead. His mistress is dead. The Secretary of Defense and his entire protective detail are dead.”
Herman still couldn’t figure it out. “But why?”
Harvath shook his head. “I don’t know. All I know is that it’s my fault.”
“Why is it your fault?”
“Because I didn’t see it. I’m trained to see it and I didn’t.”
Herman offered to refill his glass and Harvath brushed him away.
“The Russians can be clever,” Herman offered. “Very clever. Don’t let them get in your head.”
“Get in my head? The Russians are on a fucking killing streak and it’s my fault. How do you not let that get in your head?” said Harvath.
Herman threw up his hands and leaned back in his chair. “Take your time. Be angry. When you’re ready to get even, let me know.”
Harvath stared into the fireplace and watched the hot, blue flames lick at the thick, dry logs. Orange embers smoldered in the gray ash beneath.
He drank his bourbon and thought of the men and women who had died. And as he thought about them, his anger grew.
He hated the Chechens, but he hated the Russians even more. No matter how many times they had pounded them into the ground, they kept popping back up. They were as serious a threat as the jihadists.
But now, they appeared to be using the jihadists—using them as a proxy to do their extremely dirty work for them.
Drinking his last swallow of bourbon, Harvath felt it burn as it rolled down his throat. He then turned to Herman and said, “I can see only one way to handle this.”
“I’m listening,” the German said.
“There’s just a problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Your wife won’t like it,” Harvath replied. “We’re going to do something illegal again. Very illegal.”
CHAPTER 30
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Lilliana Grace was an attractive woman in her late thirties. Chestnut hair, perfect teeth, and just the right amount of makeup. She had made it her business by being twice as smart and twice as hungry as any of the other reporters at the Washington Post.
She didn’t like sneaking around, but from time to time, it was a necessary part of the job. Senator Wells had chosen the location. A seedy bar in southeast D.C.
“You’re positive?” Wells asked. “One hundred percent?” As he talked, he jabbed the tiny squares of ice in his cocktail with a bright green plastic straw.
They were seated in a small, stained booth with duct tape over the rips in the seats. The table between them was covered with cigarette burns. The lights were low and the place smelled like spilled beer and urinal disinfectant.
“You take a lot of meetings here, Senator?” Grace asked, waving her own straw around the dimly lit bar.
“Only the important ones. Now, keep your voice down and answer my question.”
“I told you. I came up with nobody.”
“Not one single person?”
“That’s usually the definition of nobody,” she replied as she took a sip of her gin and tonic.
“Fuck.”
“It doesn’t mean the information you were given isn’t true. It just means none of my contacts know anything.”
Wells had not survived in D.C. as long as he had without being very careful. He wanted to believe Rebecca was right—that what she had picked up at her CIA boyfriend’s apartment was right—but it was so damn risky.
If the President and the CIA had known about the threat to Secretary of Defense Devon in Turkey and had done nothing about it, it was a huge story. He couldn’t break it, though, hell—he couldn’t even hint at it, unless he was sure it was true.
Grace was the chief intelligence correspondent for the Washington Post. Before that she had been assigned to the Pentagon. She had the best damn sources in town. If she couldn’t substantiate Rebecca’s claim, it wasn’t worth taking public.
“I believe you have something for me?” she asked as Wells fell silent and played with his ice.
“Excuse me?”
“We had a deal. I look into your rumor and in exchange you give me the background on what happened in Anbar.”
“Right,” said Wells, refocusing on their conversation. “Anbar.”
Grace removed a pen and notepad. She knew there was no way the Senator was going to let her record this.
“It was a CIA operation. They were hunting high-level ISIS members,” Wells began. “A lot of mistakes were made.”
• • •
The conversation didn’t last terribly long. Senator Wells still didn’t have much information.
The only new piece of information he had was on Ashleigh Foster, the CIA officer from the U.S. Embassy in Jordan. McGee had sent over a memo explaining that Foster had been dating one of the men on the CIA SAD team. She had convinced the other two women from the Embassy to travel with her to Anbar. From start to finish, it had been an exercise in extremely poor judgment.
“That’s it?” Grace exclaimed, once Wells fell silent and went back to stirring his ice.
The Senator nodded.
“How about the names of the specific ISIS members the CIA was looking for? It sounds like they dispatched a pretty high-level team. They also sent two very covert helicopters. They must have had some idea of who they were going after.”
“No clue,” said Wells, who raised his empty glass and signaled the bartender to bring him another. “The CIA Director wouldn’t tell me.”
“You mean he wouldn’t tell the committee.”
“No, I mean me. Personally. My committee was never briefed, nor was the House committee.”
Grace leaned forward. “Excuse me?”
“Director McGee only came to me after t
he attack in Anbar.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Even if the President decides covert action is necessary, he has to issue a signed, presidential finding authorizing it. And that finding has to be presented to both committees ASAP, before any activity begins.”
“It didn’t happen.”
Grace thought for a moment. “If memory serves, the President can delay reporting, but only in extraordinary circumstances. He can also limit who the report goes to. At a bare minimum it would have to go to the House and Senate leaders of each party, as well as the chair and ranking member of each intel committee. Were they briefed?”
Wells nodded. “But only vaguely, and not until after, with no explanation for the delay.”
“Interesting,” the reporter replied as the bartender set down the Senator’s drink. “No, I’m good. Thank you,” she said when he gestured at her glass.
She was hard for Wells to read. There was blood in the water. She should have been able to smell it. She was a media shark.
“So?” the Senator asked.
“Like I said, it’s interesting.”
“Interesting enough to do an article?”
Grace set her pen down. “You’re running for president.”
“I have made no such determination.”
She smiled at him. “A story like this could be damaging to your opponent.”
“It could also generate some excellent revenue for your organization and be good for your career,” Wells countered.
“Maybe.”
Maybe? What the hell was she talking about? He was offering her a scoop. He hated how inscrutable she was. He didn’t like when he couldn’t read people. “Perhaps I made a mistake coming to you,” he said.
“You made a mistake, but it wasn’t in coming to me,” she replied. “Your mistake was in thinking I’d take what you told me and run with it.”
He leaned forward and smiled. “Have I ever steered you wrong in the past?”
No, he hadn’t. But this was different. He was gearing up for a possible run at the presidency. Anything he offered that was damaging to the current administration had to be viewed through that lens.
