by Brad Thor
• • •
Walking back up to house, Levi found McGee sitting on the porch, smoking a cigar.
“It didn’t work, did it?” the CIA Director stated.
The doc shook his head. “No, it didn’t.”
“I told you it wouldn’t. That’s not how a guy like Harvath operates.”
“And I’m telling you, you have a malfunctioning weapon on your hands. If you let him go, I won’t be held responsible for what he does.”
“His wife is being buried the day after tomorrow. We can’t keep him here. We have to let him go.”
“At least put a surveillance team on him; follow him—for his own good.”
Not a chance, thought McGee as he blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “Anything else?”
“No. I’m driving home tonight. My report will be on your desk in the morning.”
The CIA Director nodded, turned back toward the water, and took another puff from his cigar. His concern wasn’t that Harvath was “malfunctioning.” In fact, based on everything he’d seen, Harvath, all things considered, was functioning better than anyone would have assumed.
No, his concern ran deeper, to something more visceral.
Inside every human being was a very dark, very cold place. Sealed behind a heavy iron door, the cold dark was populated by the worst demons known to man.
But crack that door—even just an inch—and out all of the demons would fly. And once they had escaped, there would be no bringing them back until they had fed.
What they would feed upon was what worried McGee the most. In the case of Harvath’s demons, only one thing would satiate them.
Revenge.
CHAPTER 76
* * *
* * *
BOSTON
Harvath didn’t know what was harder, facing Lara’s parents and explaining how they had secretly gotten married at Reed Carlton’s bedside, or facing Lara’s little boy and not being able to explain to him why he couldn’t save his mom.
The service was gut wrenching. It was a full-on police funeral, where Harvath was highly disliked and seen as the guy who had convinced Lara to leave the force and move to D.C. In everyone’s mind, he was the reason Lara was dead. And while they knew next to nothing about the details, which only served to piss them off more, they were right. It was his fault that she was gone.
No matter how long he lived, he would never be able to escape that fact. It was another link in the heavy chain of guilt he carried over women who had been killed or injured because of who he was and what he did.
While meant as a slight, it was actually a blessing that Harvath wasn’t invited to speak. Instead, he sat quietly with Lara’s parents, holding Marco’s hand when the little boy had reached out for his.
The Brits had a term for what he was feeling—gutted—but it didn’t go far enough. Harvath was absolutely hollowed out.
The night before, he had stood outside the funeral home for hours in the rain. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t summon the courage to go inside, not while the viewing was going on.
Lara’s colleagues loved her dearly and he could tell by the amount of drinking that was going on in the parking lot that if he had shown his face inside, there would have been trouble. This was Boston after all. They were proud, profoundly decent people with a deep sense of right and wrong.
He didn’t blame them. Each of them wanted to believe that had they been there, regardless of what had happened, they would have made a difference. That’s who they were. They were cops, warriors. It was grossly unfair to them that Lara was gone and Harvath was still here. They couldn’t willingly fathom a scenario in which he lived and she died. In their minds, it had to be a failing on his part. If only she hadn’t left Boston. If only she had chosen a cop over whatever secret-squirrel bullshit Harvath did for a living.
Once all the cars had departed, once the funeral director and his staff had gone home for the evening, Harvath had disabled the alarm and had let himself inside.
They had done an amazing job. Lara looked beautiful. Pulling up a chair, he placed his hand atop hers.
For an hour, all he did was sit there. He didn’t have the words, much less the breath, to speak.
This was the woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with. After putting off marriage for so long, he had finally taken the leap, only to have his bride ripped away from him.
The family he had put on hold so he could pursue his career had been within his grasp. He and Lara and Marco had been a perfect fit. She had lost her husband and Marco had lost his father. Harvath had arrived at the point where he was ready to take on both of those roles. But now it was all gone.
She was so smart, so beautiful, and so funny. What’s more, she had understood him. More important, she had understood why he did what he did and why it was so important. In short, she not only loved him, but she allowed him to be who he was.
Gripping her hand, he let it all come out. He let her know how much he loved her, how much he missed her, and how sorry he was that she was gone and that he had not been able to save her.
And as he did, the iron door to the dark, cold place swung the rest of the way open.
• • •
Still exhausted, he fell asleep in the chair next to her.
It was just before dawn when her voice came to him, and told him that it was time to wake up.
He lingered for a moment in that halfway place between sleep and wakefulness, hoping she would say something more, that maybe she would tell him that everything was going to be okay, that she forgave him. He waited, but no further words came.
Looking at his watch, he saw that he would have barely enough time to make it back to his hotel to change before meeting up with Lara’s parents at their apartment.
As he had been at the safe house in Maryland and wanted to catch the first available flight to Boston, Sloane had been kind enough to go to his house, pack him a bag, and bring it to him at the airport.
Though she had taken creative license on similar errands in the past, this time she was incredibly respectful—white shirt, black shoes, black tie, and black suit. She had even included a black overcoat, as well as a couple extra days’ worth of subdued clothing.
She had also been thoughtful enough to include a heartfelt note of support. Everyone on the team, including Nicholas and even McGee, loved Lara. She was someone very special. All of them would have made the trip to Boston to be there for her funeral, but Harvath had asked them not to. Out of respect for him, they had all stayed back in D.C.
Upon arriving at Lara’s parents’ house, Marco had thrown his arms around Harvath and hadn’t wanted to let go. There was a spark of his mother in him and it felt better than Harvath could have ever imagined to hold the little boy close.
After the burial, when they arrived at the hall where the wake was to take place, Harvath looked out the window of their limo at the steady stream of strangers parading in.
These were people Lara and her parents knew. None of them knew who he was. If the looks he had gotten at the mass and at the burial were any indication, he was not going to be very warmly received here either. On top of that, this was going to be wrenching for Marco.
Pulling his father-in-law aside, Harvath asked if he could take the little boy out to get something to eat and promised to bring him back to the apartment later. Lara’s mother and father had both agreed.
After the grandparents had exited the limo, he had the driver take them to a little Boston breakfast place Lara had loved.
Seeing the pair dressed in dark suits and ties, the hostess must have intuited where they were coming from, because she waved them over and found them a table ahead of the other people who had already been waiting. Harvath tried to give her a tip for her kindness, but she refused to take it.
Looking at the children’s menu, Marco had trouble deciding what to eat. Harvath told him that on a day like this pancakes were the right choice. He didn’t know why, other than that when h
is father had died, one of his father’s SEAL buddies had taken him for breakfast and had suggested the same.
After they had eaten, he asked Marco what he wanted to do. The little boy wanted ice cream, so that’s what they did. They then went to the Lego store, a bookstore, and a spot on the banks of the Charles River where he liked to feed the ducks. All too soon, it was time to go home.
The limo had already gone back to the hall, so he and Marco had been walking and taking cabs. Instead of taking one all the way back to the apartment, he had them dropped off a few blocks away. He wanted to walk a little bit more.
Sensing that their time was growing short, Marco reached out and took his hand again as they made their way up the street.
Harvath, as tough as he wanted to be, was doing all he could to hold it together. He wasn’t the only one who had lost the chance at a family—so had Marco. Both his mother and his father were gone.
Nearing the apartment, he dreaded saying good-bye. More to the point, he dreaded the question he knew was coming, “When will I see you again?” or worse, “Why can’t you take me with you?”
But those weren’t the words the little boy used. Instead, after squeezing his hand exactly as Lara always did, he looked at him and said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” replied Harvath as he kneeled down and gave the boy a long hug. “Be good for your grandparents. I promise I will see you soon.”
Marco smiled, gave Harvath one more hug around his neck, and then disappeared inside.
He was a good boy and Harvath meant what he had said. He loved him, just as much as he had loved Lara.
It took him several blocks to find a cab to take him to the cemetery. He wanted to spend time at Lara’s grave before flying back to D.C.
Unlike at the funeral home where he had spent his time apologizing, this time, he remembered to be thankful.
In particular, he remembered to thank Lara for coming to him when he had been at his weakest in Russia. Whether he had imagined it, or whether it had actually been her, didn’t matter. She had saved him and for that he was grateful.
After his time at her grave, he returned to the hotel to pick up his bag and then head out to the airport. He had two more funerals to attend in D.C.
Once those were over, the reckoning would begin.
CHAPTER 77
* * *
* * *
WASHINGTON, D.C.
With distinguished careers in the intelligence world, Lydia Ryan and Reed Carlton shared many of the same friends and colleagues.
In order to make it easier for those flying in from across the country and from around the world, it was decided to hold both services on the same weekend.
Lydia’s would be on Friday and the Old Man’s would take place on Sunday. Saturday was scheduled as a day off, so that people could rest their livers and recover from all the drinking.
The Ryan family organized a sedate viewing, followed by a tasteful Catholic mass and burial. That night, a block from Union Station, they rented out the entirety of the Dubliner for one of the most raucous Irish wakes Washington, D.C., had ever seen.
It was packed with personnel not only from the CIA, but from allied intelligence agencies as well. As a courtesy, and as a precaution, Metro D.C. Police had closed down the street outside. They also brought out SWAT and K-9 units just to be safe. This kind of guest list was a terrorist’s wet dream.
Poster-sized pictures of Lydia had been placed on easels around the bar. In every photo she was either laughing or flashing her bright, beautiful smile. The message from her mass was reinforced at the wake: Life is short. Love who you are. Love what you do. Make every day count.
Her family couldn’t have picked a more perfect encapsulation of who she was. Still aching from his trip to Boston, Harvath was glad to be among his teammates—all of whom made sure he was not left alone.
Between the funeral and the wake, Harvath ended up seeing CIA personnel he hadn’t seen in years. Among them were Rick Morrell and three of his teammates, DeWolfe, Carlson, and Avigliano. Harvath had gone into Libya with them years ago hunting the heirs to Abu Nidal’s terrorist organization.
They traded stories for a while until everyone drifted off in different directions to refresh their drinks and catch up with other long-lost friends.
It was after midnight when Harvath pulled Sloane aside and let her know he was going to leave.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll gather everybody else up.”
“No. I’m good. I’m going back by myself.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he replied.
“How about I swing by tomorrow and just check in? Help you box stuff up?”
By “box stuff up” she meant boxing up Lara’s things.
“Let’s see how you feel in the morning,” he said, nodding at the new drink she held in her hand. “Text me.”
“You going to be okay to drive?”
Harvath nodded, “I’m fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” And with that, he had quietly slipped out.
The next morning, Nicholas showed up at his place bright and early. Along with the dogs, he had brought with him the fixings for breakfast.
He had chosen to avoid the Dubliner for health reasons. A crowded room full of staggering drunks wasn’t a good environment for a person his size. And the fact that he suffered from easily broken bones only compounded the potential risks.
Nicholas had, though, attended both the mass and the burial. His presence had sent whispers racing among the foreign intelligence operatives who had no idea that “The Troll” had received a full presidential pardon for his past deeds and had taken up residence in the United States.
Harvath was certain that while Nicholas couldn’t be at the wake, he had raised a glass of good whiskey in Lydia Ryan’s honor and had helped to send her off in style.
“You look better than I expected,” the little man said, as he placed his shopping bags on the bench in the kitchen. “How late did you stay?”
“I slipped out sometime after midnight,” he replied. “Coffee?”
“Tea, please,” said Nicholas, nodding at Lara’s tins.
“What kind?”
“What was her favorite?”
“Lapsang Souchong,” he stated, pronouncing it proudly.
“That’s what I’ll have then.”
After petting the dogs for several moments and putting down bowls of water for them, Harvath put a kettle on.
While he did, Nicholas clambered up onto one of the chairs at the dining table, opened his messenger bag, and laid out everything he had brought with him.
“Chase says you owe him 10 percent,” said the little man.
“Ten percent of what?”
“Of whatever comes of this.”
Harvath looked over as Nicholas held up the journal Harvath had taken from Teplov back in Russia.
When The Carlton Group jet had landed at Andrews, Harvath had slipped it to Chase with a request that he quietly pass it on to Nicholas.
Harvath had assumed, correctly, that he would be immediately taken into loose custody with an offer for medical attention, which he had declined, followed by transport to a secure location for his debriefing. Had he been carrying the journal, McGee and his people would have found it straightaway.
“I just want to say two things before we start,” Nicholas declared. “First, I have a lot of respect for you and what you’re planning to do. Second, I think you and your plan are fucking crazy.”
“Good to know that I haven’t lost my touch,” Harvath replied as he prepared the cups and then brought everything over to the table when it was ready.
As he poured the hot water, Nicholas explained what he had learned from the journal. Not only did they have a full name and background for Josef, they also learned who had selected him and had coordinated everything from the murders of Lara, Lydia, and Reed Carlton to the hiring of the Wagner mercenaries once the plane had gone down in Russia. It was
a General out of the GRU named Minayev. And Minayev had been operating on direct orders from Russian President Peshkov.
When Sloane called early in the afternoon, sounding very hungover, Harvath told her everything was okay and that there was no need for her to drop by. Nevertheless, she insisted.
It wasn’t until he put the call on speakerphone and she could hear Nicholas’s voice that she believed he was there.
Nicholas seemed an odd choice to help box up Lara’s things and decide what should go to her parents and what should go to charity, but if that’s what Harvath wanted, she wasn’t going to go against his wishes.
Telling Sloane that he would see her tomorrow at the Old Man’s service, Harvath had disconnected the call and gotten back to his work with Nicholas.
They had a lot more to do before he infiltrated back into Russia.
• • •
Technically, Reed Carlton’s service hadn’t been a funeral. It had been a “memorial.”
The Old Man’s last will and testament had been specific. And as executor, Harvath had followed his wishes to the letter.
Cremation. Ashes to be placed into a cut-down, silver-coated 75 mm artillery shell—a crazy gift from some Raja whom Carlton had befriended decades ago while working at the CIA’s station in New Delhi.
The memorial service at his local church had been followed by a reception at Carlton’s home, complete with a “well-stocked” bar. Food had been permitted, “but don’t go overboard.” And no “goddamn vegetables,” he had instructed.
That had made Harvath smile. Even in death, the Old Man had remained a detail guy.
There had been a lot of particulars to go over. Some were obvious, such as Harvath being tasked with taking over the organization. Other details had been less obvious, though a letter from Carlton explained that in time, they would be.
His guest list was a who’s who not only of global intelligence personalities past and present, but also of American politicians and foreign leaders. The security alone was a sight to behold.
