by Brad Thor
“Fuck you, you—” Josef began again, but Harvath choked him quiet once more.
“I just injected you with suxamethonium chloride. Also known as sux. Right now, all of your muscles are starting to give up. In about sixty seconds you will be fully paralyzed and unable to breathe, but you’ll still be fully conscious and aware of what’s going on. Two minutes from now, when the nurses rush in to give you CPR, it’ll be a lost cause. Before that happens, though, I’m going to make sure you die as painful a death as possible.”
Withdrawing his hand from around the man’s throat, he straightened up and struck the Russian brutally and repeatedly in and around his chest.
Josef tried to raise his arms to defend himself, but he could not. He tried to call out for help, but he was equally unable. He could do nothing but lie helplessly and watch it all happen, much the way Harvath had been forced to witness the murders of Lara, Lydia Ryan, and the Old Man.
When Harvath had finished pounding on him, he stood back. There was no doubt he had broken multiple ribs.
Josef was not only going to die of suffocation, but as the well-meaning medical staff pushed down on his chest in an effort to revive him, they were going to be exacerbating the pain of his broken ribs and helping to puncture his lungs.
It wasn’t the slow death Harvath wanted to give him. That kind of pain would have taken weeks or months. But all things considered, it was a very nasty death he was all too happy to deliver.
Placing a bag-valve mask over the man’s face, he pushed the emergency call button and shouted out instructions in perfect Russian, just as Christina had instructed him, for the local equivalent of a Code Blue.
Within moments, the room filled with medical personnel, all of whom were exclusively focused on the patient.
As they fought to revive Josef, Harvath slipped out the door, walked downstairs, and left the building without anyone noticing.
By the time he made it to the corner, Alexandra was already there, in the car, waiting for him. One down, two to go.
Their next target wouldn’t be available for several hours. To her credit, Alexandra had taken that into consideration and had planned accordingly.
In an empty office across the street, she had placed a couple of cots, food, water, and even medical supplies in case the first hit had gone sideways.
Harvath had to hand it to her, she was very good at her job.
They passed the day and into the early evening in relative silence. Had he taken her up on her offer last night, they could have found a more enjoyable way to while away the hours, but it was what it was. As night fell and the city darkened, she brewed coffee and went over the next phase of the operation with him.
She knew General Minayev only by reputation. She had never met the GRU bigwig in person. And while she understood the reasoning behind the next phase of Harvath’s operation, she found it particularly distasteful. Even so, she had agreed to go along with it.
Once more, Nicholas had been the key to their planning. Three times a week, Minayev rendezvoused with his mistress at a small apartment he owned not far from the cheese shop he so loved.
If the upper echelons of the FBI and CIA had as many men cheating on their wives as Russian Intelligence did, the American Congress would have been up in arms and rightly purging them left, right, and center. The fact that Russia condoned such behavior could only be added to the list of reasons they lagged behind the rest of the developed world when it came to law, order, and trust in government.
Corruption, sadly, wasn’t something to be avoided in Russia, it was something to be studied and then expertly exploited.
Aside from the unseemliness of it all, what was particularly helpful was that the lovebirds always ordered in. They did so via an app, which Nicholas had no trouble tapping into.
When the food arrived, Alexandra was standing on the chipped curb, waiting to receive it. As the driver sped off, she rang the bell, announced herself, and then sent Harvath up as the door buzzed open.
Reed Carlton’s 1911 in his hand, he stepped out of the stairwell and into the hallway. Russian apartment buildings had always seemed to smell the same to him—fucking horrible. He didn’t know what caused it. At its foundation, it had to be the cooking, but from there it was anybody’s guess.
He waited for Alexandra to appear from the opposite stairwell and when she did, they approached the apartment door together.
After she rolled down her balaclava and took off her jacket to expose a Russian Security Services raid vest, Harvath knocked.
As they had anticipated, the mistress answered the door. There was no way Minayev was going to risk being seen here.
The woman was surprised to see a man standing at the door, when it had been a woman who had called up on the intercom from downstairs.
He put his index finger against his lips as if to say, “Shhh,” and then pointed at Alexandra, who beckoned the young woman over to her.
Believing something official to be up, the mistress stepped into the hall and did as they instructed.
As she passed, Harvath slipped inside. He could smell Minayev before he even saw him.
The legend of the cheese the man ate smelling like a decomposing corpse didn’t do it justice. It actually smelled worse. How his wife, much less his mistress, could stand to be with him was a total mystery. Both must have been suffering from anosmia.
Normally in a situation like this, Harvath would have felt comfortable drawing out the man’s death. But the odor was so bad that he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the apartment.
Assuming his mistress was dealing with the delivery, Minayev sat in the living room, his back to the hall, watching TV.
Holstering his weapon, Harvath uncapped a new hypodermic needle and crept forward. With the television up so loud, Minayev never had a chance.
Harvath jammed the needle into the base of his neck, depressed the plunger, and held him down while he waited for the sux to do its work.
“Do you know who I am?” Harvath asked, as Minayev caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, before paralysis took hold.
The GRU man nodded.
“Josef killed my wife, my colleague, and my boss on your orders. Now, I’m here to kill you. But I’m not just going to kill you. I’m going to destroy your professional reputation as well. Even after your death, people will revile your name.”
Harvath wanted to continue, but he could see that the man’s breathing had slowed. Every muscle in his body had relaxed. He thirsted desperately for air, but lacked the ability to exercise his lungs and draw new oxygen in. Staring into his eyes, Harvath watched as he slowly asphyxiated.
Everything now came down to timing. Quickly, Harvath wrapped a cord around the man’s neck, pulled it tight and dragged him with it into the bathroom.
There, he slung it up and over the door, attaching it to the doorknob on the other side.
Stripping off Minayev’s clothing, he dressed him in the women’s lingerie he had brought along and then scattered hard copies within reach of the child porn Nicholas had made sure would be discovered on all of his devices.
Out in the hallway, Alexandra didn’t feel like talking. This was the part of it that she didn’t like, the pornography. Her reaction was exactly what he was hoping other Russians would feel when the news broke.
As they left the building, he gave the okay for her anonymous source to contact the local paper.
It would not be a good day for the GRU. One of its most distinguished Generals would be found hanged, by his own hand, via autoerotic asphyxiation and surrounded by child porn.
With two down, there was only one left to go.
CHAPTER 81
* * *
* * *
If you asked Muscovites who, on the social scene, they hated the most, privately, they would all give you the same answer. Misha.
Misha was the diminutive of Mikhail, and everyone knew who it referred to—Mikhail Peshkov, pride and joy of the Russian Presid
ent, Fedor Peshkov.
It was said that the only thing the elder Peshkov loved more than his money and power was his son. He was his sole offspring, the only living memory of the President’s deceased wife, who had also been his childhood sweetheart. The boy represented the continuation of the family bloodline, but like many only children, he had been recklessly spoiled by his over-adoring father.
The blinders the Russian President wore when it came to Misha had seen a spoiled child grow into a dangerous young adult.
Though barely into his twenties, the young man had become known not only for his gluttony and abandon, but also for his cruelty. Even the local Russian mafia despised him. Had it not been for his all-powerful father, he would have already been taken out.
But because of the elder Peshkov, he was free to run wild, free to terrorize businesses throughout Russia, legitimate and otherwise, with impunity.
He had caused grievous damage “bottling” prominent rich Russian night-club goers by slamming their heads with champagne bottles, crippling and even killing prostitutes, and had pioneered a sick new form of polo that entailed running down stray dogs with cars.
Immediately after Harvath had read the dossier Nicholas had compiled, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on him.
This target, though, was more difficult than the others. This one was a “twofer” and as such, it had to be executed flawlessly.
Even more than the son, Harvath wanted the Russian President to suffer. He wanted to grab the elder Peshkov by the throat, cut his eyes out with a penknife, and slowly lower him into a vat of acid, but that pain would have only been temporary. That wasn’t good enough.
Harvath wanted Peshkov to suffer, as he had suffered in losing Lara, Lydia, and the Old Man. He wanted the Russian President’s pain to last for years. That was why he and Alexandra were here now.
The Federal Security Officers sitting in the cars outside Misha’s loft hated the President’s son as much as the rest of Moscow did. Harvath and Alexandra had no problem slipping past.
The officers posted inside the building were a different story.
Affixing a suppressor to the Old Man’s 1911, Harvath had Alexandra in her short skirt, dark wig, and thigh-high boots come in the front door, while he entered from the back.
Having done presidential protective details, Harvath knew the extent to which the United States went to keep the children of prominent politicians safe. What he saw in the lobby was stunning.
There were two security agents in total. They were both focused on the front door, which allowed him to come in from the back unchallenged.
While Alexandra engaged Tweedledee and Tweedledum, telling them she was supposed to meet a girlfriend there for a party in one of the lofts, and they stared transfixed at the tops of her breasts in her low-cut top, Harvath hit the stairs.
He had no idea if the twenty-six-year-old would be by himself or surrounded by some lowlife “posse.” Either way, Harvath had a plan.
Creeping up to the top of the stairs, a pair of latex gloves on, he slowly pulled back the exit door and looked out.
For a moment, he couldn’t believe it. Then he had to remind himself that he was in Russia. There were absolutely no guards on this floor.
That didn’t mean there wasn’t a guard inside the unit, but from what he had seen so far, he doubted it. The lazy perimeter security was an excellent indication of how little the guards thought of the President’s son.
Walking over to the apartment door, Harvath pressed his pistol up against it and softly knocked.
Based on Nicholas’s research, the man was a gamer. He spent up to sixteen hours some days on his Xbox. Harvath hoped that he was gaming now. The fact that no one had responded to his knock made him feel his hope wasn’t without merit. It was also a pretty good indication that there was no guard waiting on the other side.
Removing his picks, he went to work. Like everything else in Russia, the lock was a piece of shit. Within seconds, he was inside.
He crept forward into the loft until he heard someone cursing in Russian and froze.
With the 1911 against his chest in the Sul position, ready to be thrust out into the fight, he waited. The seconds passed interminably slowly. The pause felt like an eternity.
Finally he heard Misha howl with laughter and begin taunting some unseen person all over again. The little motherfucker was definitely on his Xbox.
This was Harvath’s opportunity, and he moved cautiously forward.
In the large living room at the end of hall, Misha sat at a sleek glass and chrome desk, surrounded by empty bags of potato chips and energy drink cans.
With his eyes focused on the screen and headphones cutting off his hearing, he had no idea Harvath was right behind him until it was too late.
He felt the stab of the syringe as it was jabbed into the left side of his neck and the cold of the liquid content as it rushed into his body.
He reached for a panic button, but Harvath pulled his chair back before he could get to it.
The sux was fast acting. It was the last thing Peshkov’s hideous son was able to do before paralysis overtook him. Death was not far behind.
Removing the vials of heroin, a dirty shoelace for a tourniquet, and a new needle, he got to work. The scene didn’t have to be perfect, only believable.
When everything was complete, he texted Alexandra, and backed out of the apartment.
He took the stairs down to the ground floor, unscrewed the suppressor from his pistol, and put everything in his coat pockets. Then, he exited the building the same way he had come in. The security officers remained none the wiser.
They wouldn’t roll back the CCTV footage until much later. And by then it would be too late.
Meeting Alexandra two blocks down, he climbed into her car and turned up the heater.
“How did it go?” she asked, as she put her car in gear and pulled out into traffic.
“Perfect,” he replied. “There’s only one thing left to do. Do you have the key for me?”
“Glove box,” Alexandra said, nodding at it.
Harvath opened it and withdrew a small envelope with a post office box key inside. He was pleased. “Now all we have to do is decide on the best way to get it to him.”
She looked at her watch and smiled. “I think I have an idea. How about a visit to the Ritz?”
CHAPTER 82
* * *
* * *
Getting anywhere near the Russian President was out of the question. The same was true for handing him any sort of a note or package. Felix Botnik, his Chief of Staff, though, was something else entirely.
A confirmed bachelor, Botnik was a renowned man about town. He was also a creature of habit, which drove the intelligence services crazy.
It was well known that he ate twice a week at one of Moscow’s trendiest restaurants—the O2 Lounge on the twelfth floor of the Ritz Carlton Hotel.
Completely enclosed in glass, the rooftop establishment was popular for its stunning views of the Kremlin and of Red Square. The views inside, though, were said to be even better.
Every night, the O2 Lounge was packed with the city’s richest, most powerful, and most beautiful people—making it the place to see and be seen.
It was always wall-to-wall, and if you weren’t plugged in, you weren’t going to ever find a seat as every table was marked with a “reserved” placard. As Chief of Staff to President Peshkov, Botnik didn’t have that problem.
Arriving at O2, his table was already waiting for him. So was a crisp, off-white, Ritz Carlton envelope with his name neatly written across the front.
Opening it, he withdrew a small, flat key that looked as if it could have been to a safety deposit box. With it was a handwritten note on the hotel’s stationery.
It simply said: To President Fedor Peshkov. From Scot Harvath. And it included an address.
Harvath had gotten the stationery at the front desk, written the note, and then carried the envelope upstairs, where
he paid a waiter $100 to make sure it would be waiting for Botnik when he arrived.
The moment Botnik read Harvath’s name on the note, he knew they were in trouble. His biggest concern was that the President might be at risk. Pulling out his cell phone, he had dialed Peshkov’s Chief of Security and had headed quickly for the elevator.
By the time his driver had pulled up downstairs, a plan had already been formulated and put in motion.
The drive to the main post office on Myasnitskaya took almost twenty minutes in Moscow traffic. By the time he arrived, the police had already closed off the street and an evacuation was under way. If Harvath had placed a bomb, they wanted to make sure that they kept the loss of life to a minimum.
It took an additional forty-five minutes before the bomb disposal team was on scene and could send their robot in. Opening the post office box, though, proved impossible. They needed a human for the job and suiting up one of the technicians took an additional twenty minutes. Shortly thereafter, they finally retrieved the letter.
After X-raying and testing it for hazardous materials, it was handed over to Botnik. Per its postmarks, the letter had been sent more than two weeks ago from the United States—Washington, D.C., to be specific. The sender was listed as Scot Harvath, and the return address Botnik had to look up on his phone. It turned out to belong not to Harvath, but rather to the International Spy Museum. If he was trying to be funny, the Chief of Staff didn’t find it amusing.
Knowing that the President was waiting on what they had found, he returned to his car to make the call. He had his driver remain outside the vehicle.
As Botnik read the letter, his heart froze in his chest. The things Harvath was threatening to do to Josef Kozak, General Minayev, and the President’s son were horrifying.
On the other end of the line, he could hear Peshkov shouting directions to his security people to check on Misha, as well as to warn Minayev, and to alert the hospital Josef Kozak was being treated at.
