Foreign Agent (15 page)

CHAPTER 33

T
hree kilometers later, the Rolls-Royce pulled off to the side of the road. Its two rear tires were flat.

During the traffic stop, Herman and Anna had each shoved a specially milled screw into the tire on their side. The screws had a hollow shaft and a hole in the head to let the air out.

Once the Rolls-Royce had fallen behind, they pulled off on a side road, put a hood over Malevsky’s head, better secured him with duct tape, and placed him in the trunk.

When they got back to the barn, Harvath was ready for them. Eichel sat naked, bound to the chair he had been bound to previously, surrounded by the plastic sheeting. The only windows in the barn had been covered over with black garbage bags.

Eichel was illuminated by four pairs of 1,000-watt, tripod-mounted work lights. Despite their blinding-white light, they did little to warm the drafty old structure. Equal measures of fear, exhaustion, and cold were causing Eichel to tremble. That was what Harvath wanted.

Anna had driven the police vehicle back inside the barn so that it couldn’t be seen from outside or overhead. She wanted to stay, but it was going to get ugly.

Malevsky would be harder to break than Eichel. It wasn’t the kind of thing Anna needed to see.

Her assistance in the traffic stop had been invaluable. She had done a perfect job. Right now, though, the best thing she could do was to return to Frankfurt. Harvath would take things from here.

They said their goodbyes inside the barn. Walking her out to her car would only have been asking for trouble.

He liked her—and that bothered him. It bothered him because she was married. And not only was she married, but her husband was critically ill. It wasn’t right.

It also bothered him because he felt disloyal to Lara. Their situation was in flux, but it wasn’t necessarily over.

He shook his head at that thought—
not necessarily over
. What else could it be? She had chosen her career and he had chosen his. It meant two different cities—Boston and D.C.

Could it work?
Anything was possible.
Would it work?
That was the real question.

If your career was the central force in your life, the thing that defined you, how much time were you going to allocate to a long-distance relationship, regardless of how much you loved that other person?

Supposedly, love conquered all, but would it counter countless security checkpoints, delayed flights, and all that time spent in travel?

Being in a relationship that was geographically undesirable didn’t seem to make much sense. It would be one thing if it were temporary—a holding pattern while the parties figured out how to end up in the same city.

But Harvath and Lara had already been through that. In fact, they had been transitioning out of it. Now they had been dragged back into it.

There was a lot to be said for having the person you loved close. Being able to walk into the kitchen and just see their face. Spending a Sunday morning doing nothing but reading the paper together. A Saturday night watching an old movie in front of the fire.

People needed what they needed. And they usually needed it when they needed it. Getting together every other weekend—if they were lucky—plus vacations, wasn’t a relationship. At least, it wasn’t the kind he was looking for.

Harvath loved Lara. He didn’t, though, love the idea of loving her from a distance. As a couple, they were moving backward.

“She has good instincts,” said Herman.

Harvath had been standing at the barn door, watching Anna leave. His friend’s voice brought his attention back.

“With the right training, she’d probably make a halfway decent operative,” Herman continued. “She’s being wasted at the Bundespolizei.”

There was a lot of promise in Anna Strobl,
on multiple levels
, but Harvath didn’t want to think about that. Not right now. He needed to focus on Malevsky.

Drawing Herman out of earshot of their captives, he explained how he intended things to go.

Once everything was set, they pulled Malevsky from the trunk of the police car.

Harvath nodded and Herman pulled the hood from the Russian mobster’s head. Malevsky blinked several times trying to get his eyes adjusted.

He looked from side to side. He saw the other prisoner, naked and restrained to a chair. He was shivering and had a hood over his head. Malevsky was nonplussed and stared daggers at his captors.

Harvath walked over and tore the duct tape off his mouth in one quick rip. As soon as he did, Malevsky started cursing him in Russian. Harvath waited for him to finish.

But Malevsky didn’t finish. He was only just getting started. Harvath spoke some Russian but not as much as he would have liked. He could pick up a few foul words here and there. The rest he just guessed at via the mobster’s tone.

When he couldn’t get a rise out of Harvath in Russian, he switched to German. Here, Harvath was a little stronger linguistically but not by much. Herman, though, found the man’s threats amusing and chuckled at some of the more creative ones.

Harvath drew back his fist and punched Malevsky in the mouth as hard as he could.

There was a spray of blood and the force from the blow knocked the Russian over backward in his chair. His head cracked against the floor.

Harvath let him lie there while he found a towel and wiped off his hand. He was setting the tone. He wanted Malevsky to know that he could keep this up as long as he wanted. He was in no hurry.

The man grunted something that he couldn’t make out. “English, please,” said Harvath.

“Fuck your mother.”

Harvath smiled. It would be a real battle of wills with this guy. He was a street thug. All he understood was brute force. He would talk, it just came down to how much suffering he was willing to endure before he did.

“You are a dead man,” Malevsky added.
“Dead.”

He drew the word out as if that would make it more frightening. He had no idea who he was talking to. That was about to change.

Harvath perused a line of tools he had sitting on a long table. He stopped at the ball peen hammer Herman had purchased and picked it up. It had a bright yellow handle and a black rubber grip. He tested its weight. “Left or right knee?” he asked.

“Fuck your mother!” Malevsky spat.

Harvath turned the hammer sideways and ran it along the outside of the Russian’s left leg. When he found his knee, he bounced the hammer against it a couple of times.

Malevsky wound up to issue another
Fuck your mother,
but Harvath was faster.

With lightning speed, he swung the hammer and shattered the man’s knee.

The Russian screamed at the top of his lungs. Tears flooded from his eyes and down his face.

Harvath returned the hammer to the table and said, “Tell me about Sacha Baseyev.”

Malevsky let loose with another string of curses in Russian.

Harvath indicated for Herman to tip the mobster back upright in his chair. When he was sitting up, Harvath repeated the question.

“You are a dead man,” Malevsky replied. “Dead man.”

“Have you ever been to Iraq, Mr. Malevsky?” said Harvath, looking over his tools.

“Fuck you!”

Harvath paused. Then he smiled and went back to selecting his next tool. “Many years ago, a Russian diplomat was kidnapped. The Iraqi government tried for a week, but couldn’t locate him. The Russian embassy brought in a team of ‘specialists.’ Men, I would imagine, like you.

“They quickly figured out who one of the kidnappers was and went to his house. Of course, the kidnapper wasn’t there, but his family was.
They grabbed one of the men. It was his brother, I believe. And then they drove off.

“An hour later, the Iraqi family heard a knock on the door. When they opened it, there was a small box sitting there. Inside, they found the brother’s ear.

“One piece of the brother—his nose, a finger, his lips, the other ear, was delivered every hour until the Russian diplomat was released.

“The Russians had been able to do in one day what the Iraqis couldn’t do in an entire week.”

Harvath stopped at a straight razor and picked it up from the table. “How many of your body parts would it take for your family to cooperate?”

A flash of panic rippled across Malevsky’s face. It had only been there for a fraction of a second before he got it under control and masked it. But the micro-expression—
the tell
—had manifested itself nevertheless.

That gave Harvath an idea.

CHAPTER 34

H
arvath had been against using Malevsky’s kids if at all possible. It wasn’t their fault they had a shitbag for a father. They were innocents, and as much as Harvath bent and often broke the rules, there were still some lines he was against crossing.

If there was any way to leave the Malevsky children out of this, he wanted to. But there wasn’t. In fact, it was Malevsky himself who had opened the door to their inclusion.

The man was like a block of Russian granite. Harvath could chip off piece after piece, but it was going to take a long time for him to break.

There was also the risk that Malevsky might go into shock, or even die. Things happened. Kumarin was a perfect example. Murphy, of Murphy’s law, had a funny way of popping up when you least expected him.

Malevsky was in a trap he had built for himself. The pain and agony it would cause him was only just beginning.

Harvath didn’t have any reservations about chipping away at him all day long, if that’s what it took. The man had information he needed. Malevsky had been facilitating an assassin who had taken American lives.

Harvath wanted that assassin, and Malevsky was going to tell him everything he knew. By using his children, Harvath hoped to get to the endpoint a lot faster.

“You have two lovely daughters, Mr. Malevsky. They looked to me to be about five and seven years old,” said Harvath. “Am I close?”

The tell once again flashed across the Russian’s face. “If you touch my
family,” he hissed, “I will kill you. Do you understand me? I will kill you, motherfucker.”

Harvath ignored his threat. “Who is Sacha Baseyev?”

“I’m going to watch you die. Then I’m going to find the people you care about and I am going to watch them die.”

Harvath backhanded him, hard, and repeated, “Sacha Baseyev. Who is he?”

Malevsky spat a gob of blood on the ground. “I have no idea who you are talking about.”

Harvath gestured to Herman, who walked over and removed the hood from Eichel.

“So what?” said the Russian, unfazed.

Harvath cracked him again, even harder. “Eichel told us everything. Now it’s your turn.”

Malevsky looked up at Harvath, blood running from his nose and mouth, staining the front of his shirt, and smiled through gritted teeth.

Harvath drew back his hand to strike him again, but stopped. Instead, he stepped away, cleaned his hands with the towel, and removed his phone.

“Do your children have any pets, Mr. Malevsky?” he asked.

The Russian refused to answer. Harvath sent a quick text message and then leaned back against the table as he waited for a response.

When his phone chimed, he looked down and read the message out loud. “Your older daughter is allergic to cats. But they have two goldfish.”

The smug smile on Malevsky’s face barely wavered. “With enough money, you can find out anything. Cats, fish. I could even tell you what color underwear your wife is wearing.”

Harvath smiled back at him and sent another text.

Minutes passed. Finally, his phone chimed once more. Harvath read the text and opened the attachment.

Turning the phone around, he showed it to Malevsky. It was a photo of his two daughters. They were holding up pictures they had drawn. One was of a yellow hammer. The other was of a barn. The smile immediately disappeared from the Russian’s face.

“Satisfied?” asked Harvath. “Or would you like to know what color underwear your wife is wearing right now?”

“
You
. You’re the American who toured my house. What have you done with my family?”

“All that matters is what I am
going
to do. Anything that happens to them will be
because
of you. If you cooperate, we’ll let them go.”

“Who is
we
? America?”

Harvath cupped his hand and struck Malevsky in the left ear. It made a loud
pop
and the mobster cried out in pain.

“I ask the questions, not you. You give answers. Anything else and I will instruct my colleagues to go to work on your family. Is that clear?”

Malevsky nodded.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” the Russian relented. “Clear.”

“Good,” said Harvath. “Now, who is Sacha Baseyev?”

CHAPTER 35

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

N
ext to the attack during his childhood, swimming through the cave system had been one of the most terrifying things Sacha Baseyev had ever experienced. He never wanted to do anything like it again.

Flooding from the rainwater had been a serious problem. Multiple areas that should have contained pockets of breathable air had been completely submerged.

In one area, where they had been able to surface, his guide had discussed turning back. The young man was afraid that they wouldn’t make it.

Quietly, Baseyev made plans to kill him and take his diving cylinders. There were guidelines and line markers to point the way. He could have made it without him.
Unless something went wrong.

The doubt gnawed at him and so he pushed the young man to see the journey through. The young Mexican was extremely reluctant, but he must have seen something about Baseyev. He must have seen that his own life hung by a very tenuous thread at that moment. Wisely, he chose to press on.

When they emerged on the U.S. side of the border, a smuggler was waiting for them. He had protein bars, bottles of water, and a fresh change of clothes for Baseyev.

Even though he had been wearing a dry suit, he was drenched, having sweated through what he had on beneath.

He washed himself in the cold cave water, put on the new clothes, and followed the smuggler out to his battered Ford F-150 pickup.

Everything he owned at that moment was in a small, sealable bag he had carried inside the suit. He had cash, credit cards, false identification, and a smartphone with spare SIM cards.

The smuggler drove Baseyev into the nearest town, Laredo, Texas, and dropped him at the bus station on Salinas Avenue. From there, Baseyev was on his own.

With plenty of stores within walking distance, he was able to purchase everything he needed. Once his shopping was complete, he hailed a cab and headed out to the airport. A Cessna Citation M2 business jet was waiting for him when he arrived.

After shaking hands with the captain, he climbed aboard and stowed his bag.

The interior was tight, but the caramel-colored leather seats were wide enough and could be folded flat. All he cared about was sleep. As soon as the jet lifted off, he closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep.

When he awoke, the jet was on final approach to Manassas Regional Airport in Virginia. He had slept the entire trip.

He cleaned himself up in the restroom of the FBO and then had a cup of coffee while he waited for his Uber vehicle to arrive.

The explosion of apps like Uber and Airbnb had been a godsend in his line of work. No matter what hat he wore—assassin, terrorist, spy—he didn’t need a complicated support network of safe houses, cars, and dead drops. And many of the things he did need, especially in America, were only a click away.

The credit cards and bank accounts he used wound through false holding companies and addresses around the globe that were empty, or simply didn’t exist. Trying to track him based on his financial activity was useless. The GRU had created a maze of blind alleys and dead ends.

And considering what Baseyev was about to undertake, they fully expected the Americans to pick every single transaction apart. But by then, it would be too late. The damage would already be done.

• • •

The distance from the Manassas airport to downtown Washington, D.C., was only thirty miles, but it took almost two hours in traffic.

Baseyev had the Uber driver drop him at the Marriott Marquis on Massachusetts Avenue. It was adjacent to the convention center where he said he was attending a conference for human resource managers.

In the lobby, he found a bellman and checked his bag in their temporary luggage storage. He then exited the hotel through another entrance.

Somehow, he had thought Washington, D.C.—the seat of American power—would feel different. He had expected to be awed. He wasn’t.

Turning right, he walked down New York Avenue. One thing he was struck by was how many cameras there were. Cameras were excellent for solving crimes, not necessarily for preventing them.

With that said, software had gotten to the point where computers could tell if a bag had been left unattended, or could be directed to find things like a “man on a yellow bicycle.” Computers were not going to stop what he had planned.

At 15th Street, New York Avenue ended and Baseyev stepped onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Instantly, he could feel an electricity course through his body.

The defenses, the countermeasures, the things most normal people would never notice, were all around him now. The lengths to which the Americans had gone was ridiculous.
All this to protect one man. One building.

But that man and that building were both symbolic—facts not lost upon Baseyev.

When he had drawn even with it he had to stop and look. The awe was there now. The White House and all it represented was staring right back at him through its wrought iron fence. It was dramatic.

A tourist standing nearby asked him to take her family’s photo. He declined, politely, and began walking again.

Four blocks later, he removed his phone and checked his GPS. Looking up, he saw the building he was headed for.

Not too close and not too far.
It was just right.

By the time the United States figured out what it had been used for, he would be long gone.