Foreign Agent (10 page)

CHAPTER 23

Y
ou’re sure?” Herman asked. The sleeves of his sweat-stained shirt were rolled up to his elbows. One of the Beretta pistols was tucked in his waistband. His work had been cut out for him over the last hour.

Leaving Eichel back in Frankfurt had been out of the question. There was too much trouble he could have caused.

So, with Anna Strobl on point, Harvath had put his pistol in Eichel’s side and walked him downstairs and out to the street. At the car, he forced him into the trunk where he bound and gagged him with duct tape. He and Anna then drove back to her house in Oberursel.

They had chatted for several minutes in the driveway. As gorgeous as she was, she radiated loneliness from every pore. She was not dealing with her husband’s illness well.

His prognosis wasn’t good. The disease had moved much faster than anyone had anticipated. She confessed that she had never lost anyone before, not even among the cops she worked with. Harvath had lost a lot of people and he shared some of that with her. Most important, he shared the regret he carried and how it weighed on him. He encouraged Anna to make the best of the time she had left with her husband.

She was frightened, but there was also strength inside her. Whether she believed it or not, she was tough. She was a warrior. She would make it through this, and Harvath told her as much. She thanked him.

As he reversed out of the driveway, she stood on the ramp and held
his gaze. He hoped for her sake and for Jörg’s that they’d be able to find a little bit of happiness together.

What Strobl had done was wrong, very wrong, but Harvath understood it. Wanting to take care of his wife after he was gone was a noble impulse. There weren’t many options open to a man in his condition, with the clock winding down. That didn’t excuse what he had done, though. Not by a long shot.

But in the time Jörg had left, maybe there was a way he could atone for his sins. Maybe he could be of assistance to Harvath. Anna certainly had the makings of a valuable asset. Harvath would have to think about it.

In the meantime, Herman had done him a huge favor. At some point during the drive down from Frankfurt, Eichel had needed a bathroom break, but was bound and gagged in the trunk and not able to communicate.

Harvath’s car was not only cleaned up, but so was Eichel. He had been changed into what Harvath assumed were a pair of Herman’s pajamas. A hood was over his head and he was sitting, bound to a sturdy chair, in the barn.

Sheets of plastic had been suspended from rafters and rolled out along the floor. An average person might have suspected that the pair was going to paint something. Mikhail Malevsky wasn’t average. He would know exactly what was going on and what all of the plastic was for.

“You’re absolutely positive?” Herman asked again as Harvath double-checked Eichel’s restraints.

“Are you sure he can’t hear us?” Harvath replied, nodding toward their prisoner.

Herman pulled the hood back to show that not only was Eichel blindfolded, he was also wearing professional earmuffs that had been duct-taped to his head. Sensory deprivation. It would keep him off balance, scared. Along with his battered face, he would make an excellent prop. Once Malevsky saw the state he was in, he might be more open to cooperating.

A bit more at ease, Harvath said, “Am I
absolutely
positive
? Of course I am. She saved my life. That’s not someone you forget.”

Harvath replayed the scene in his mind. It was more than ten years ago. They were three miles from the White House. A tactical nuclear weapon had been hidden in Congressional Cemetery. If it wasn’t for her,
the bomb would have gone off and he would have been dead. He had doubted her loyalty and she had proven him wrong.

“Okay,” Herman continued, “let’s say you’re right. After all of these years, it’s
her
. But did she recognize you?”

“After everything we went through?”

“What I
mean
, is, did she acknowledge you?”

He shook his head. “She was cold as ice. A pro.”

“So what’s she doing here? Why would she be a nanny for some Russian mobster?”

“Malevsky isn’t just
some
Russian mobster.”

“I know,” said Herman. “He’s related to the Prime Minister. But even if he was related to the Pope, why would a Russian SVR agent be babysitting for him in Bavaria?”

It was a good question. The SVR was Russia’s version of the CIA. Pitchfork, aka Sacha Baseyev, was a product of the GRU, Russia’s version of the Defense Intelligence Agency.
Why would the two agencies be crossing paths like this?

None of it made any sense. “I have to find out why she’s here,” Harvath replied.

“Wait. What?”

“You heard me.

“
After
we grab Malevsky,” said Herman.

“What if she knows something?”

“In and out. That’s what you said.”

“I know that’s what I said. But that was before she saw me. We can’t grab Malevsky now—not until we know what’s going on. If we go in there and snatch him, the Russians will know the United States is onto them.”

“I hate to break it to you, my friend, but they already know. You don’t think she’s going to report seeing you?”

“I don’t know what she’ll do,” Harvath responded. “That’s why I need to talk to her. Alone. Tonight.”

Herman thought about it for several moments. Finally, he looked at his watch. “It will be dark soon,” he said. “How do you want to do this?”

• • •

Harvath hadn’t seen any sign of dogs during his tour of Villa Malzoff. That didn’t mean Malevsky didn’t have any. If he did, they were personal protection dogs that traveled with him, not guard dogs who worked a perimeter. That was good.

The other thing Harvath had going for him was that the property was not enclosed. There was no wall, no fence, nothing—only the gate at the bottom of the driveway.

There were landscape lights, but no floodlights. There was an in-house, wireless security system, but it wasn’t very sophisticated—mostly motion detectors. He hadn’t seen any cameras.

Malevsky appeared to have a lot of confidence in his guards. And if that was the case, Harvath needed to as well.

Reviewing the satellite footage Langley had provided, he identified all of the likely avenues of approach and scratched them off his list. They were too obvious. Malevsky’s guards would have planned for them already.

The most difficult, and therefore the least likely way in, was to come up and over the rocky terrain behind the estate. Harvath liked it for multiple reasons.

Any view of the house was blocked by a narrow stretch of forest. That meant it was a lousy perch for a sniper. There was also no way to get a vehicle anywhere close back there. Thieves or kidnappers wouldn’t want to be that far away from a vehicle.

The only person coming in from the back would be someone planning to kill Malevsky, probably up close, somewhere on the property.

That meant a professional, like Harvath, and it would be very difficult to know he was there.

If the guards were Spetsnaz, that meant they had a military background and likely approached problems by looking for military solutions. If it were Harvath, he would plant ground sensors and tune them to ignore anything at or below the weight of the most common local animals. This way, if a deer came bounding through, things wouldn’t get sent into DEFCON 1.

With the kind of money Malevsky had, though, his people could afford an even more sophisticated system. They could conceivably go full military grade with a product that not only automatically distinguished be
tween animals and humans but also had a motion-sensitive camera that tracked the intruder and transmitted a real-time feed.

Those cameras transmitted via hardwire, satellite, or radio frequency. Based on what Harvath had seen, he doubted they’d go through the trouble of trenching and burying wires—not on a property Malevsky was enjoying only until it could be sold.

Harvath’s money was on a satellite signal or RF and he lobbed that ball into the CIA’s court while he finalized his plan.

When it was complete, he shared it with Herman. “Where am I positioned?” he asked.

Harvath pointed to the map and drew a circle around the farm. “You’re staying here with Eichel.”

The massive German furrowed his brow. “Bad plan.”

“It’s a good plan. It’ll work.”

“Until it doesn’t,” said Herman, taking his pen and turning the map around. “You expect to leave the property the same way you came in.”

“So?”

“What if your access is blocked?”

Harvath looked at the map and replied, “I’ll go around this way.”

“Which doubles the distance back to your car. What if you’re injured?”

“I’ll improvise.”

“And if the local police find your car parked up on the road?” Herman asked.

“It won’t be on the road. It’ll be off. I’ll make sure they don’t find it.”

“But if they do?”

“I’ll improvise.”

“I can see it now,” Herman said, splaying his hands. “Here lies the body of Scot Harvath.
He improvised
.”

Herman was beginning to get on Harvath’s nerves. Harvath didn’t need his help. He knew what he was doing. “I want you with Eichel.”

“That’s fine,” Herman replied. “We can duct-tape Eichel in blankets and put him in my trunk. I’ll drop you off behind the property and then pick you up wherever you want.”

“And if the police find you? With Eichel?”

Herman smiled. “I’ll improvise.”

CHAPTER 24

I
t took the CIA longer to get back to Harvath than he had hoped. But they had come through. Actually, it was a combination of agencies that had come through.

Detecting whether or not there were devices on the perimeter of the property, and if so what kind of signal they were emitting, wasn’t an easy task. Satellites didn’t hover. They moved around the earth in an orbit and had limited windows within which to gather information.

After consultation with the National Reconnaissance Office and the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, a request was made to the German military for a pair of U.S. F-16 Falcons out of Spangdahlem Air Base to be allowed to modify the flight path of their evening training maneuver. They claimed to be testing a new terrain mapping system and wanted to do so over the mountains of Bavaria.

The Germans granted permission and within fifteen minutes both jets were airborne.

The sophisticated system they carried with them did a lot more than just map terrain. The jets were like Google’s “street view” cars, but on crack. They vacuumed up every single scrap of electrical information they came in contact with—Wi-Fi signals, cell phone information, radio traffic and satellite communications, even the RF codes for garage door remotes. It was an incredible piece of high-tech.

The jets had needed only one low-level pass. They turned on their vacuums, swept in over Berchtesgaden, and by the time anyone had heard them and knew they were there, they were already gone.

After landing back at Spangdahlem, the drives were pulled, the data was encrypted, and then it was all transmitted back to the United States.

Harvath had been correct. There were multiple objects around the perimeter of the property communicating with a satellite network.

Now that they knew where and what they were, the NSA got to work on how to interrupt them.

The operation was highly compartmentalized, contained to only a handful of personnel. That was good for secrecy, but not so good for a rapid turnaround. When they finally had it ready to go, Harvath heard a voice over his earpiece.

“Norseman, this is Round Top. We are ready to proceed on your command. Over.”

Harvath had gotten as close to the property as he dared. Until he knew the signals from the ground sensors had been interrupted, he didn’t want to go any further. “Roger that, Round Top,” he replied. It was cold. He could see his breath. “Stand by. Over.”

“Roger that, Norseman. Round Top is standing by. Over.”

In addition to all the supplies sitting back in the barn, Herman had delivered for Harvath in another department—tactical equipment.

He did one last check of his gear before saying, “Round Top, this is Norseman. On my mark. Over.”

“Roger that, Norseman. On your mark. Over.”

Adjusting his night-vision goggles, he counted backward aloud from five.

When he got to one, the voice over his earpiece said, “Norseman, this is Round Top. The satellite signal is interrupted. I repeat, the satellite signal is interrupted. You are good to go. Good luck, Norseman. Over.”

Harvath didn’t respond, he was already up and moving.

The ground was steep, the rocks sharp. He was wearing hiking boots, dark jeans, and a black North Face jacket. The sensors were only going to be down for a short time. He needed to move fast.

Twice, he lost his footing. Twice, he caught himself. If he hadn’t been wearing Herman’s gloves, his hands would have been hamburger.

At the bottom of the rocks, he sprinted for the woods. Once he was in the trees, he relayed a situation report, or SITREP for short. “Round
Top, this is Norseman. I’m on the beach. Going to zero comms. Over.”

Round Top acknowledged that Harvath had reached the trees and wanted radio silence by responding with two squelch clicks over his earpiece. It was now
game on
. There would only be communication if he initiated it.

He removed the 9mm Heckler & Koch USP SD Herman had given him and spun a GEMTECH suppressor onto its threaded barrel. It was loaded with subsonic ammunition and he carried two extra magazines. If bullets started flying, though, that meant something had gone very wrong.

His goal was to channel the Sierra Club—get in, get out, and leave no trace.

It was a serious gamble. If Malevsky discovered that his security had been breached, he was going to be a lot harder to get to. He was either going to add additional layers, or go to ground. Neither option made Harvath’s ultimate assignment any easier.

This foray, though, was an acceptable, and even necessary, risk. It had to be done. No one back at Langley disagreed.

With Herman’s gloves tucked in his pocket and his hands wrapped around the butt of the weapon, he picked his way through the remaining trees and got ready to make a sprint to the first structure.

“Round Top, this is Norseman,” he whispered. “Home plate to first base. All good?”

He waited and one squelch click was returned.
All good
. Via their current satellite, they weren’t seeing any trouble between him and his first target.

Harvath swept his night-vision goggles back and forth over the stretch of meadow he would have to cross. It looked clear. Taking a deep breath, he counted to three and took off running.

The ground was uneven, but mostly grass and much less rocky. As long as he didn’t hit any holes, he’d be fine. He could already see the residential building not too far ahead. There were no lights inside. It looked like everyone was—

Suddenly, two digital squelch clicks chirped over his earpiece. Harvath
dropped, flipped off his goggles, and buried his face in the ground. Somebody stateside had seen something.

He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even breathe. All he could do was listen. But there was nothing.
What the hell had they seen?

He laid there on the cold ground wondering, until the wind gave him an answer. Above the smell of cold, damp earth, he began to detect something else—cigarette smoke.

Somebody was taking a smoke break and must have wandered in his direction.

He took slow, controlled breaths, trying to gauge the smoker’s distance, but the scent faded.
Did the smoker walk away?

Almost in answer to his question, he received the “all clear” from Round Top—three squelch clicks.

Replacing his goggles, he allowed his eyes to readjust and then slowly looked up and assessed his situation.

There was no one in sight. The smell of cigarette smoke had also all but evaporated.

Pushing himself up, he moved toward the structure. Quickly. Quietly. As he moved, he swung his head from left to right, scanning for threats, his suppressed pistol up and ready to fire.

The main door for the residential building was unlocked and he let himself in. He had rebuilt everything from memory—what he had seen in each room, what staff members belonged to each apartment. She wasn’t in this building. Malevsky and his wife would want her close to them, close to the children. She would be inside the main house, but there was someone else of value that slept here.
The chef
.

Harvath had seen him while touring the kitchen with Jakob. He had noticed the broken capillaries of the man’s nose, the tremor in his hand, the coffee cup nearby, filled with something other than coffee.

As Jakob had taken him through the residential building, Harvath had identified the man’s apartment by the personal photos on his dresser, the Russian cookbooks on his bookshelf. The poorly hidden vodka bottle in the bathroom had confirmed his suspicions.

Standing outside his door now, Harvath could hear the man’s snoring. It sounded like the bellows of a gigantic blast furnace. In and out, in and
out. It was like someone was trying to parallel-park a mile-long freight train.

Harvath tried the chef’s doorknob. It was unlocked. He slowly pushed the door open so as not to make any noise and then stepped inside.

The man hadn’t even made it to his bed. He lay passed out on his couch. There was a half-eaten plate of food on the coffee table, accompanied by the “coffee” cup Harvath had seen him with earlier. He was still wearing his uniform.

Harvath shook his head and scanned the living room until he found what he was looking for. The chef had dropped his keys on the floor.

Carefully, so as not to make a sound, he picked them up.

Now all Harvath had to do was to get into the house—something that was going to be much easier said than done.