Black List (11 page)
Peio’s contradictions were most fully on display when it came to the man who had introduced them—Nicholas, or simply the Troll, as the intelligence world referred to him.
Peio and Nicholas had met at an orphanage, in Belarus. Nicholas was one of its patrons and the priest had been doing missionary work there, ministering to the
podkidysh,
or “abandoned children,” many of whom were part of the continuing legacy of Chernobyl. Through their work at the orphanage, the two men had developed an unlikely, yet deep bond.
So strong was that bond that when Nicholas needed someplace safe, a place to disappear, he had turned to Peio, just as Harvath had done.
Peio lived two and a half hours farther up into the mountains at a remote monastery dedicated to Saint Francis Xavier. The ETA commander was a friend from his childhood and his fortified ranch served as a base camp and a gateway to the monastery beyond.
It was hard for Harvath to believe that it was less than a year ago that he and Peio had met. They had been drawn together by Nicholas, a man who had grown on both of them and whom each called his friend.
This same man had drawn Peio back into the field and his old way of life, though Harvath suspected the priest hadn’t put up much resistance.
Harvath had been thrown into an operation with Peio and had watched him work. He was good; his instincts on the money. So adept was he and so suited to the field that Harvath secretly wondered if the man would be able to remain a priest or if God might have yet another plan in store for him.
Whether He did or didn’t wasn’t Harvath’s concern. Right now he needed Peio. That meant he was going to have to trust him.
Reaching for his coffee cup, he settled on the words he was going to say and then began to fill the priest in.
P
adre Peio had only left the table once, to get an ashtray, and had motioned for Harvath to keep talking, which he did. When he finished, the priest exhaled a cloud of smoke and leaned back in his chair.
“I am deeply sorry for the loss of your colleague,” said Peio. “I will pray for her, as well as the other men you were forced to kill.”
The idea of Peio praying for Riley’s killers didn’t sit well with him at all, but Harvath kept that to himself.
“Now then,” continued the priest, “what else can I do for you besides provide sanctuary? I assume you want to make contact with your superiors?”
“I do.”
“Considering your circumstances, using a telephone, at least from here, is out of the question.”
“Agreed,” replied Harvath. “It would be too easy to trace. If I had access to a computer, though, I could route it so that it looks like I’m someplace else entirely. Is there one here that I can use?”
“There is. I’ll speak to your host and see what I can do.”
Twenty minutes later, Harvath was sitting in the main house in front of a small laptop. After laying a long digital trail through servers in multiple countries, he accessed his Skype account. Clicking on Reed Carlton’s
icon in his contact list, he typed a message the Old Man would recognize, letting him know that he had gone to ground and that Riley had been killed.
Am on the road. My companion couldn’t make the trip.
It was all he needed to say. Carlton was pretty much glued to his Skype account. If he wasn’t communicating with his people in the field via computer, he was doing it on his smartphone. Harvath sent the message and then sat back and waited. Forty-five minutes later, he was still waiting.
The Old Man’s icon showed that he was online, yet he still hadn’t responded. The only thing he could think of was that he had to be in a meeting of some sort. But with the time change, it didn’t make any sense. He didn’t like it, but he had no choice but to continue waiting.
An hour later, Peio knocked on the open door and asked, “Everything okay?”
Harvath shook his head. “No word yet.”
“It
is
the middle of the night back in the U.S.”
“I can’t reach Nicholas either and he’s always online.”
“I haven’t been able to contact him either,” said the priest.
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday. I reached out to him when I heard you were looking for me.”
“Via cell phone or the Web?” asked Harvath.
“The Web,” replied Peio.
Harvath went back into his contact list to check Nicholas’s Skype status. It showed him as being off-line. Nicholas was never off-line. Something was wrong.
Scrolling through his contact list he pinged one of the other operators he worked with at the Carlton Group, a man named Coyne. His icon showed him as being online, but he wasn’t responding. Harvath decided to call him on Skype. Clicking on the number, he activated the call and listened to it ring until it went to voice mail.
He then tried another operator, a man named Moss, and had the same results. Working his way down the list, he reached out to the two dozen or so other operators. Not a single one of them answered. Something definitely wasn’t right. In fact, something was very wrong.
Peio could see the look on Harvath’s face. “What is it?”
“I can’t reach anyone. Not on their Skype accounts. Not on their mobile phones.
Nothing
.”
“Could there be a reason?”
Harvath was sure there was a reason, but the only one that came to mind was so unfathomable that he didn’t want to even think about it. But he had to. There was no such thing as coincidence, not in his line of work. He had to assume that something very bad had happened. “I need to get back.”
“To the States?”
“Yes. Now. As soon as possible.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” asked Peio. “You have no idea what you might be rushing back to.”
The man had a point. He could be rushing right into a trap. That said, he couldn’t just sit still. He had to do something.
He was running options through his mind when a chime rang from the computer and a message from the Old Man suddenly appeared on his screen.
Received your message. Are you okay?
Peio had heard the chime and saw the expression on Harvath’s face change. “What is it?”
“The Old Man just responded,” stated Harvath as he keyed in his response to Carlton.
Am okay. No damage.
There were a million things he wanted to tell his superior, but he knew better than to do that, even on Skype. Instead he waited.
Moments later, the Old Man typed,
Are you somewhere safe?
Yes.
Good. Stay there. Wait for further communication.
It was just like the Old Man to tell him to sit and wait, without giving him any further information. The fact that he didn’t ask where Harvath was or try to move him to one of the other Carlton safe houses was a bad sign. The organization must have been very deeply penetrated.
Roger that,
Harvath replied.
Do not communicate with anyone else,
the Old Man added.
Not until I figure out what is going on. No one.
That was a prohibition Harvath should have expected. Technically, he had already “communicated” by reaching out to the other team members,
but there was nothing he could do about that and decided to keep it to himself.
He wanted to ask what, if anything, the Old Man knew about the Paris attack, but he knew better. Carlton had contacts everywhere and had probably already been in touch with French intelligence. The fact that he wasn’t asking for any details at this point spoke volumes. When he wanted Harvath’s report, he’d ask for it. In the meantime, Harvath would do as he had been instructed.
Understood,
he typed and then watched as the Old Man’s icon changed from green to gray, indicating that he had logged off.
ATS H
EADQUARTERS
A
NNAPOLIS
J
UNCTION
M
ARYLAND
T
hat was actually worth getting out of bed for,” Craig Middleton said as he patted his protégé on the shoulder. “Well done.”
Kurt Schroeder tried to not grit his teeth. It was like working for Sybil. The man had to have been manic-depressive or bipolar or something. He ran so hot and cold, you never knew what the hell was going to come out of the faucet next. More often than not, though, the safe bet was that it would be pure liquid asshole. He was a screamer too, and prone to throwing things. Employees at ATS derisively referred to him as “Chuckles, the laughing boss” and called his twisted style of debasing encouragement “blamestorming.” Schroeder, though, seemed to be keenly adept at handling him or, more appropriately, ignoring his less than professional, the-floggings-will-continue-until-morale-improves management style.
Middleton had never been able to hold an assistant for more than a year until he brought Schroeder in. Whether either of the men would ever admit it, they were made for each other.
Colleagues had marveled at Schroeder’s ability to ignore Middleton’s
never-ending torrent of slights and petty insults. “Like water off a duck’s back,” they remarked, but they were incorrect. The insults didn’t just “roll” off. Each abusive strike found its target, which Schroeder quietly cataloged and buried. When he did exorcise his demons, he attempted to do so as far from the prying eyes of ATS and Craig Middleton as possible. He knew all too well the lengths his boss was prepared to go to in order to leverage information.
It was by understanding Middleton so intimately that he was able to work with him so closely. And understanding Middleton wasn’t difficult at all. He had to look no further than his own youth to find a nearly identical personality.
Schroeder had been born and mostly raised in a world of exceptional privilege, but in one afternoon, it had all been taken away. The fancy prep school, the magnificent house, the cars, the security afforded by bottomless bank accounts, all of it. Yet the worst part for Schroeder had been the loss of his father.
At the time, Schroeder was fourteen and a freshman in high school. The scandal was of epic proportions and its fallout horrible. It rained incessantly that autumn and the weather seemed to mirror the overwhelming sorrow welling up from the very pit of Schroeder’s young soul. As the media trampled their Greenwich, Connecticut, lawn, they pounded down on the boy’s sodden family and turned everything into mud.
Until that day, the family had been regarded with respect and admiration, even awe. Their wealth and prominence defined who they were. But it was all a lie, all of it. The media had a term for what Schroeder’s father had been doing, a term he had never heard before. They called it a “Ponzi scheme.”
In an instant, his father, the man he had idolized, the man he was named after, went from being a “wizard,” a “magician,” and a “genius,” to a “liar,” a “thief,” and a “con man.” As those words rained down, a vise clamped down on his heart, forbidding it to beat.
He loved his father, and even though he was no more than a boy, he desperately wanted to defend him. He refused to believe what everyone was saying. This was his
father
they were talking about. His father was a good man. He was being bullied, and Schroeder hated bullies.
As he reached out to him, looking for an explanation, looking for reassurance that everything was going to be okay, his father withdrew. Then a nightmare more horrible than anything he could ever imagine took place.
While home on bail, awaiting trial, Schroeder’s father committed suicide. The vise that had been clamped around his heart now ripped it fully from his chest. From that moment, it was a cold, dark spiral downward.
Everything the family had was taken from them. Every bank account was seized. Every asset, every car, all of it, gone. And with it, so too went their prominence and their identity. In their place was insupportable, unbearable shame.
His mother, an already unhappy woman battling depression and a host of her own problems, slipped into a vodka-induced haze and carpet-bombed what was left of her psyche with pills as their world fell apart around them.
She was already a strict authoritarian, but now she became downright abusive and mean. She and her son moved from their once exceedingly comfortable life in Greenwich to a threadbare, one-room apartment in Hartford, where she proceeded to drink through what little of her own savings she had managed to hide from the courts.