Backlash: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  He knew that the pain he was feeling now was nothing compared to what he was going to be feeling in the morning. Overnight, as the lactic acid built up in his muscles, things would only get worse.

  It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but he had been sore and tired and cold enough times to know he could handle it. It was why SEALs were put through Hell Week. The idea was to push them past the breaking point so if—God forbid—they were ever in this kind of situation, they would persevere.

  And that was exactly what Harvath intended to do. Failure was not an option. The only option, no matter how bad things became, was success.

  It was the mindset that had been drilled into him in the SEALs, and especially at SERE school. He needed to set small, achievable goals—a shelter, a fire, a meal—and then appreciate and build upon his successes. Everything was about state of mind and how he chose to perceive his situation. The people who felt powerless were the ones who wouldn’t make it.

  Coming around the bend in the river, Harvath needed a moment to realize what he was looking at. As soon as he did, he froze in his tracks.

  CHAPTER 18

  * * *

  * * *

  RESTON, VIRGINIA

  It was when Chief Tullis had mentioned the Investigative Services Bureau of the New Hampshire State Police that the piece McGee needed had fallen into place.

  In December of the prior year, a disturbed man had contacted the CIA via its website and had threatened to shoot the Governor of New Hampshire.

  In addition to reaching out to the Governor’s office and the FBI, the Agency had also gotten in touch with a little-known division of the Investigative Services Bureau known as the Terrorism Intelligence Unit. Working with officers there, the CIA was able to keep the New Hampshire authorities informed of their investigation, which found that the suspect had no known connections to international terrorism. The FBI had also come to the same conclusion on the domestic front.

  The investigation had been given high priority, and had been conducted thoroughly, professionally, and quickly. It also, as it turned out, had earned the CIA and FBI a favor from the Governor. He agreed to put the press conference announcing Harvath as their prime suspect on hold.

  He insisted, though, that a notice be put out to law enforcement. If Harvath had snapped and then turned around and shot a cop, he didn’t want blood on his hands. McGee understood, and Militante helped the State Police draft the alert.

  With that task complete, they had convoyed back to the airport with their security details, boarded the Agency’s private plane, and flown back to Andrews Air Force Base.

  In flight, McGee had contacted the White House and had requested an emergency meeting with the President. He would need to be briefed. And after being briefed, he would need to authorize what the CIA Director wanted to do next.

  The FBI’s Hostage Recovery Fusion Cell was a multiagency task force, based at FBI headquarters, that pooled resources, data, and intelligence in an effort to recover Americans who had been kidnapped abroad.

  There were obvious reasons he needed the President’s approval to activate this cell, most glaring among them that there was zero evidence that Harvath had been kidnapped.

  But that’s exactly what McGee’s gut was telling him—this had been a snatch operation.

  The question, though, was who was behind it. Harvath had a list of enemies longer than his arm, all of them extremely violent.

  It could have been Islamic militants, organized crime, even the Russians, all of whom Harvath had tangled with on behalf of the United States.

  The Russians had the most skill, and a particular axe to grind with him, but McGee was skeptical. Even though Harvath had foiled their ambitions more than once, they would have known grabbing him on American soil like this would be an act of war. The reprisals they had already suffered for their prior bad actions would be nothing in comparison to what the U.S. would do in response to something like this.

  The CIA Director felt certain that an undertaking this brazen, with such an incredible downside, had to have been carried out by a nonstate actor. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Nevertheless, before the plane had even landed, he had pulled together a trusted team at Langley to comb through Harvath’s past assignments, all the way back to his SEAL days, to see if anything jumped out at them.

  Accessing Harvath’s jobs for The Carlton Group was another matter. They had other clients besides the CIA. McGee was going to need somebody inside whom he could trust, someone with access to all of the files. There was only one person who filled that bill.

  In any other situation, the request could have been made via a secure teleconference or an encrypted email. Today, though, it needed to be made in person. No one at The Carlton Group was yet aware of the murders. It was going to hit the entire organization hard, but no one harder than the man McGee was about to meet.

  The man known in international intelligence circles as “The Troll,” The Carlton Group’s Chief Technology Officer, met the CIA Director at the elevator. Because of primordial dwarfism, he stood barely three feet tall.

  With him were his ever-present guardians—Argos and Draco—a pair of white two-hundred-plus-pound Ovcharkas, also known as Caucasian Sheep Dogs. In the dangerous, cutthroat world he inhabited, the dogs were both a bulwark against attack and a reminder of the powerful enemies he had made.

  Before joining The Carlton Group, the little man had enjoyed an extremely lucrative career trafficking in the purchase and sale of highly sensitive black-market intelligence. He was a hacker and IT specialist par excellence. What he lacked in physical stature he had more than made up for in brainpower and ambition. He was also a man of particular appetites whose predilections would put some of the world’s grandest bon vivants to shame.

  His given name had been abandoned to a past fraught with heartache, pain, and abandonment. A quiet supporter of orphans and orphanages in far-flung corners of the world, he had taken for himself the name of the patron saint of children, so his small circle of friends and colleagues at The Carlton Group knew him as Nicholas.

  When the CIA Director and his retinue stepped out of the elevator, the little man could read the expression on his face. Something very bad had happened.

  McGee suggested they conduct their meeting in Lydia Ryan’s office, as it was more comfortable than the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, or SCIF, that Nicholas called his own.

  Agreeing, the little man led the way.

  When they arrived at Lydia’s office, McGee’s security detail did a quick sweep and then retreated into the hall.

  “Take a seat,” Nicholas said, gesturing toward one of the long leather couches. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Coffee,” McGee replied, as he scratched Argos and Draco behind the ears. He had gotten to know them quite well since Nicholas had joined the firm.

  There was the sound of ice cubes being dropped into glasses, followed by bourbon being poured.

  Putting the cork back in the bottle, Nicholas turned from the liquor cart and waddled over to the couch with two tumblers. “We’re out of coffee,” he said as he handed them over.

  Once he had climbed up onto the couch, he took one for himself and asked, “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to need this?”

  McGee had already decided he wasn’t going to pull any punches. “Lydia has been killed. So has Reed. And so has the Corpsman who was on duty.”

  Nicholas was in shock. “When? How?” was all he could manage to say.

  “As best we can tell, a few days ago. They were all shot inside the cottage in New Hampshire. Lara Cordero was there, too. She’s also dead.”

  The blood drained from the little man’s face as he braced for what he was certain was coming next.

  The CIA Director’s following sentence, though, surprised him. “There was no sign of Harvath.”

  Emotion overcoming him, Nicholas fought it back and took a long sip of his bourbon. As he raised it to
his small mouth, the large glass trembled in his hand.

  McGee wasn’t good at consoling people. There were a bunch of things he could have said, but he was afraid they might sound hollow, or, worse, phony. Instead, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  He knew that Harvath and Nicholas shared a special bond. They were kindred spirits. Once on opposite sides of the fight, they had been drawn together somehow. Theirs was an extremely unlikely friendship, but it was a friendship nonetheless. And it was deep. Harvath reserved for Nicholas an esteem that he had extended only to men with whom he had been in combat. For Nicholas, Harvath represented something he had never truly enjoyed—family.

  Having dribbled a little of the liquor down his chin, Nicholas reached up with the back of his hand and wiped it off. Then he raised the glass again and drained what remained. McGee followed suit.

  Handing over his empty tumbler, the little man motioned to the bar cart and asked, “Do you mind?”

  The CIA Director didn’t. Getting up, he took both glasses over, filled them up, and then returned to the leather couch, handing Nicholas his.

  “Who did it?” Nicholas asked.

  McGee leaned back, exhaled a tired breath, and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  Again, he shook his head. “I don’t have any idea.”

  Nicholas took another long sip of bourbon before asking, “He isn’t a suspect, is he?”

  The CIA Director nodded. “According to local law enforcement, he is. Their working theory is that Harvath has some kind of PTSD and snapped.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Of course it’s ridiculous.”

  “No,” Nicholas replied, lowering his glass. “I mean it’s fucking ridiculous. Do you have any idea why he and Lara went up there?”

  “I assume to see Reed.”

  The little man looked at him, his eyes wide in disbelief. “They didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Of course not,” said Nicholas, shaking his head. “Nobody was supposed to know. At least not right away.”

  “Nobody was supposed to know what?”

  Setting his glass down, he filled his guest in. “Scot and Lara had gone up there to get married. They hired a local minister to do the ceremony. Reed had been getting worse, and they wanted him to be part of it. The plan was to have a proper wedding with Lara’s parents and everyone else a few months down the road.”

  “Jesus,” said McGee, leaning forward. “Who else knew?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “Only Lydia. She had to be up there already to see Carlton. Afterward, she was going to take a few days off. I assumed that’s why I hadn’t heard anything from her.”

  “Who else might have known that they were going to be at the cottage?”

  The little man thought for a moment. “I heard them talking about an old intelligence asset that Reed used to run. The asset knew that Reed was sick and wanted to see him one last time. Lydia was trying to put something together, but she wanted Harvath to be there for it too.”

  “Did this asset have a name?”

  “Just a codename,” Nicholas replied. “Matterhorn. Does that ring a bell?”

  Very slowly, as the color in his face drained, McGee nodded.

  CHAPTER 19

  * * *

  * * *

  DONBASS REGION

  UKRAINE

  Kazimir Teplov, the man known as Wagner, stood atop an armored personnel carrier, a rifle hanging at his side, and yelled to his team. “Let’s go! Hurry it up. I want the plane loaded this year!”

  He had handpicked his best men, all seasoned special operations veterans, and all winter warfare experts.

  The call had come directly from Minayev. The head of the GRU’s special missions group had made it crystal clear that this assignment was a top national priority. And by top national priority, it was automatically understood to mean that it was a top Kremlin priority.

  The mission parameters, though, were interesting, if not downright unusual.

  Whenever the government had used Wagner before, it had always been for assignments outside the country. This was an operation inside Russia.

  The Russian military, though, had its own elite soldiers. There could be only one reason that the Kremlin wanted mercenaries: deniability.

  But with all the active military and intelligence personnel devoted to the Russian state and its President, it was hard to imagine what could require such extraordinary measures.

  Even over the encrypted line, Minayev had been reluctant to say. He would meet the plane at Alakurtti Air Base and explain everything there. He had provided only broad brushstrokes—expected terrain, weather conditions, size of force required, and equipment suggestions.

  If Teplov had to guess, there was some sort of coup afoot. Though hard to imagine, it wasn’t an impossibility. The fact that a mercenary team was being called in suggested that the Russian military couldn’t be trusted.

  He ran through a potential list of plotters in his mind, men in the Army’s high command capable of such a thing. There were more than a few of them.

  The plotters, though, couldn’t have had much support, because Minayev wanted the operational footprint kept small. His request had been for two dozen men. More than that, he claimed, would be unnecessary.

  Teplov didn’t like it. Assembling and equipping a team without knowing all the details was dangerous. These were his men, not Minayev’s. The ultimate responsibility for a successful outcome would fall to him.

  By the same token, Teplov respected the General’s experience. The man had not risen to where he was by accident. He was both tough and highly intelligent. And despite Teplov’s success in the field, the older man had seen more action in a lifetime than he would see in two. He would defer to the GRU chieftain’s judgment. For now.

  In addition to twenty-four of his best men, he had marshaled his best equipment, and then doubled the amount of ammunition they might need. Everything else would be up to the gods.

  He had then briefed his team on what he knew. They were flying to an air base north of St. Petersburg for an operation of indeterminate length, the objective of which had yet to be revealed.

  The men were professionals. They had worked on countless missions where the details were unknown until the last moment. Even now, none of them questioned why they were being deployed on Russian soil. They were almost fanatical in their loyalty to their leader, and would follow him anywhere.

  Teplov hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

  CHAPTER 20

  * * *

  * * *

  MURMANSK OBLAST

  It was as if God himself had set down a tiny jewel in the middle of the vast, unforgiving Russian wilderness. And while it tore at his painfully frozen skin, Harvath smiled.

  The question of where he would shelter for the night had been answered.

  On the opposite bank sat a small, weather-beaten cabin.

  No smoke rose from its chimney. Drifts of snow reached up to its windows. There were no signs of life anywhere. It appeared uninhabited.

  Now all Harvath had to do was get across the ice.

  Fording an unfamiliar river was dangerous enough. Fording a frozen one took the danger to another level.

  The fact that he had been able to see water moving under the surface concerned him. It was practically guaranteed that the thickness wasn’t anywhere near what he’d like it to be. His options, though, were limited.

  He could take his chances and cross here. He could keep walking, hoping to find the “perfect” point to cross. Or, he could give up altogether, stay on this side of the river, and get to work building a shelter.

  Compared to sleeping outside in subzero temperatures, the cabin was the Ritz Carlton. It would provide shelter not only from the elements but also from predators. And though it didn’t look like much, there was no telling what supplies he might find inside.

  There was also the possibil
ity of a road, which he could trace back to civilization. His choice was clear. He needed to cross. The only question was where—upriver or down?

  Based on the abrupt right angle the water took, he decided that was the worst place. The water was being forced around a corner, which meant there’d be a lot of churn and the ice would be at its thinnest. He decided to push farther down the bank.

  A few hundred yards later, he stopped. This seemed as good a place as any.

  Dropping the lynx carcass and his pack, he took a good look around and listened for any sound of danger. All he could hear was the sound of the wind, accompanied by the groaning of the frozen river, and beneath it, ever so faintly, the rushing of the frigid water.

  Glancing at it, he was suddenly reminded of a fly-fishing trip he’d been on years ago. They had been working a fast-moving stream with a strong current they had to lean into. One of their party had slipped and fallen. Despite the belt meant to cinch them tight, his waders quickly filled with water as he was swept away.

  They barely made it to him in time. The man had almost drowned. It was something Harvath had never forgotten.

  Looking across the ice to the opposite bank, he decided to repack his gear. He wanted the most critical pieces on his person. Everything else—the pack, the rifle, and the lynx—he would tow behind him via a piece of cord he had salvaged from the wreckage.

  If he fell through, he wanted as little as possible weighing him down and, God forbid, dragging him under the ice with the current.

  Within moments of removing his gloves, his hands began to stiffen. He worked as fast as he could, stopping only to take short breaks to warm them.

  When everything was ready and he had his gloves back on, he stepped carefully out onto the ice and stood there listening.

  The wind still howled, the frigid water still rushed, and the ice still groaned, but no more so than before. Good sign.

  He had strapped the pack to the lynx carcass and now set the bundle down on the ice next to him. He had about five feet of cord left over to use as a towline. He would have preferred more, but it was better than nothing.