Authors: Brad Thor
CHAPTER 38
F
RIDAY
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
B
aseyev had chosen Zainab because she was a woman. In addition to being young and attractive, she was also fast.
Very
fast.
They had met in Syria. She had come to join the jihad and fight for ISIS and the caliphate. The recruiter she had made her way to was highly intelligent. He realized that sending a woman like Zainab to the front lines would be an unforgivable mistake.
When Allah blessed you with such a gift, it was because he intended for it to be used, appropriately. Zainab was placed in a house and protected, kept away from the other recruits until a decision could be made.
The leadership, as it had been doing more and more, had consulted with Baseyev. And as he had proven to them time and again, he did not disappoint when it came to strategy.
Zainab possessed dual American/Kuwaiti citizenship. She was a student at Georgetown University who had returned to Kuwait on her American passport and then traveled on to Syria with her Kuwaiti passport.
For all intents and purposes, her trail was clean. The Americans had no way of knowing that she had gone anywhere other than Kuwait to visit relatives. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Baseyev and several ISIS leaders spent considerable time interviewing her. They needed to be absolutely certain she was devoted to the cause. She had made it to Syria, determined to fight, but what would happen when she returned home to America? Would she lose her resolve? Would she change her mind?
After much deliberation, it was decided that she was incredibly resolute and that she could be counted on to fulfill her mission.
When her mission was decided upon and her training complete, she was sent back to the United States and told to wait. Now, here they were.
Zainab only needed to make it thirty yards. From the fence to just beyond the fountain. Anything more than that was welcome, but under no circumstances, not even if the door was wide open, was she to cross the threshold and enter the White House. If she did, it would ruin everything. She needed to remain outside, in full view of the cameras.
Baseyev knew the Secret Service wouldn’t shoot. They wouldn’t turn their canine teams loose on her either. The White House was too politically sensitive. Images of a young, female protestor of Middle Eastern descent being shot or attacked by dogs on the White House lawn wouldn’t play well on television.
Thirty yards. That’s all he needed. She promised that she wouldn’t fail him.
Despite the bright sunshine, the crisp April day had never gotten out of the low fifties. Everyone was wearing a jacket, including Zainab. As she walked, she could make out the sweet, rose-like scent of the cherry blossoms beginning to peak around the Tidal Basin. It was a good omen. Allah had blessed this day.
The banner she carried was a work of art. It was made of silk and would stream beautifully behind her as she ran across the grounds. All the eyes of the world would be upon her. It was the most incredible opportunity she had ever been given. She was excited and intensely nervous all at the same time.
Only thirty yards,
she reminded herself.
Baseyev had studied the Secret Service. He had watched all the videos and had read all the articles regarding breaches of White House security. And after he had analyzed them, he had shown them to Zainab. For her to be successful, she needed to know what she was up against and how to deal with it.
They took tea together one last time. It was at the apartment he had arranged within walking distance of the White House. They talked for hours, stopping only to pray for Allah’s protection and continued guidance.
After giving her a pill to help her sleep, he made himself comfortable
on the couch and waited out the rest of the night in case she changed her mind. She did not.
The next morning, he rose early, shaving his dark stubble and changing into a fresh shirt he had purchased in Texas.
When Zainab finally entered the kitchen, he smiled warmly and offered her a cup of coffee. The drug he had given her the night before had been strong. It took her a few minutes to clear away the cobwebs.
He produced a small pillbox and offered her a different item this time. “Something the brothers and sisters in Iraq and Syria have found helpful,” he said as he pushed the thick pill toward her. “It packs the courage of a lion and the strength of ten men.”
Zainab didn’t argue. Accepting the drug, she placed it on her tongue and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee.
“Is there anything I need to do about the apartment?” she asked after swallowing. She was moving her hand in a wiping motion.
“You mean clean it for fingerprints?” Baseyev responded. “I’ll take care of it. You focus on the greatness you are about to achieve.”
They prayed together once more before he told her it was time to get ready.
Because it was such a special day, there were certain additional rituals that needed to be performed, including how she was required to bathe.
Once she was fully dressed, she stepped back into the living room so that Sacha could look at her one last time.
Everything was perfect.
She
was perfect. She would not fail him. Of that, he was certain.
They had grown close during their time together in Syria and he was not afraid to make a show of his affection. Like a brother or a cousin, he placed one soft kiss upon her forehead as he pressed two more pills into her left hand. “Take these just as you are about to leave.”
They exchanged a few more words and then he was gone.
Sitting alone in the kitchen, she watched the clock on the microwave. It was almost surreal. To have the knowledge of what was about to happen, when no one else did, exhilarated her. The drugs only enhanced her excitement, causing her to feel almost euphoric.
When the appointed time arrived, she couldn’t wait to get moving.
Pouring a glass of water from the tap, she swallowed the pills Ibrahim had given her, zipped up her jacket, and left the apartment.
She had been told not to alter her route unless she believed she was being followed. With nothing to give her that impression, she continued on.
“You will not see me,” Baseyev had told her, “but I will be close. I will be watching over you.”
She stole occasional glances as she walked, to the side and behind, hoping to catch one last glimpse of him. But true to his word, he was nowhere to be seen.
The pills he had given her, though, had heightened her awareness. Even though she couldn’t see him, she believed she could feel his presence. He was all around her.
Zainab followed her route to Lafayette Square Park, just across the street from the White House. There she saw the permanent array of protestors, each hoping to catch the attention of the President and the media. She was about to teach them how to do both.
She didn’t need to remind herself to smile. There was a radiance pouring out of her that she simply couldn’t contain. She felt more alive, more certain of herself and her purpose in life than ever before.
CHAPTER 39
B
ERLIN
, G
ERMANY
V
iktor Sergun left his apartment building at 7 a.m. sharp, walked to the end of his block, and turned left.
He was wearing a gray suit and a navy-blue trench coat. His black shoes were polished and his hair neatly combed. A small piece of toilet paper marked where he had nicked himself shaving that morning.
Harvath’s instructions had been crystal clear. He didn’t want Sergun followed. He only wanted confirmation.
Once Sergun disappeared around the corner, Adler radioed Kluge. As soon as Kluge saw Sergun enter the embassy, he radioed Herman. It was on.
They numbered six men total. Two needed to stay back with the prisoners, which meant they were left with four operatives at any given time in the field.
Surveilling an embassy was no easy task. Surveilling the Russian Embassy specifically was an open invitation to get caught.
For all their faults, the Russians weren’t stupid. They weren’t careless either. In addition to being heavily invested in electronic countermeasures, they spent a lot of time focused on good, old-fashioned human tradecraft.
The Embassy lay just east of the Brandenburg Gate on a grand boulevard named Unter den Linden. It was one of the busiest, most popular areas in all of Berlin.
In addition to being packed with shops, cafés, offices, and assorted
tourist sights, there was a tree-lined allée, replete with park benches, that ran right down the middle of the boulevard, which offered multiple places where someone could position themselves to conduct surveillance.
To combat this issue, the Embassy sent out roving teams of observers. They were dispatched sporadically, which made them hard to spot.
Hard
, but not impossible.
There was a look to them—something that said eastern European. The causal observer might miss it, but not someone who knew what to look for. Herman’s men
knew
what to look for.
As such, they had been able to rotate in and out of the area. One at a time, they kept an eye on the Embassy while avoiding detection by its CCTC cameras and observation teams.
Around noon, Harvath and Herman headed to the Restaurant Pasternak. They took their time looking for a parking space, driving around the neighborhood in order to get a feel for it.
There were multiple bottlenecks and chokepoints, but there were also multiple side streets and opportunities to disappear. It was a mixed bag, but Harvath and Herman both agreed that net-net, it was too good a location to pass up.
The restaurant sat on an odd-shaped corner where several streets met. A long outdoor terrace like that of a Parisian café wrapped around the front. Across the street, an old water tower that had been converted into apartments rose from a thick, green park.
They took a table under one of the red awnings outside and ordered lunch. Herman had a beer. Harvath drank Red Bull.
Watching the traffic pass, they quietly discussed what the neighborhood would look like tonight and what kind of problems they might encounter.
When their meals came, they ate and then each man used the restroom in order to scope out the restaurant from the inside.
After walking all the way around the long block, they retrieved Herman’s BMW and drove back to the old produce warehouse in Friedrichshain.
Farber and Bosch were finishing up their shift keeping an eye on the prisoners.
Harvath pulled up an overview of Berlin on Herman’s laptop and walked them through what he had seen.
They discussed primary and alternate routes, as well as what should happen if police became involved or if they were unable to get back to the warehouse. All of them knew that anything was possible.
They key to success was being ready for anything. That included having a backup plan in case Sergun didn’t go to the restaurant. If that happened, they were going to have to take him at his apartment.
All things considered, grabbing him at his apartment was a safer option, but it would not have the benefit of being a public spectacle.
Harvath wanted witnesses because he wanted them to talk. If it looked like Sergun had been grabbed by a team of Arabic speakers, the Russians wouldn’t know what to think, much less what to do. They might think it was a ruse, but they wouldn’t be certain. It would keep them off balance, doubting.
The second layer of the onion was Malevsky’s driver and bodyguards down in Berchtesgaden. According to Malevsky, no one in his organization knew that he was doing work for Sergun and the GRU.
Harvath found that highly unlikely. In fact, he knew it would only be a matter of time before word filtered back to Moscow that Malevsky had been apprehended. When that eventually happened, the Russians would be chasing their tails wondering what Germany’s involvement was and whether it stretched beyond Malevsky’s money-laundering activities.
It only had to keep them tied up long enough for Harvath to get to Sergun. Once he had his hands on him, he didn’t really care what the Russians knew. At that point, it would be game over for them.
When he was finished, Farber floated several questions, along with a couple of suggestions. There were two security cameras Harvath had pointed out that he was concerned about.
Since they would be wearing masks and taking other precautions, he wasn’t worried about being ID’d. What he was concerned with was appearing
too
professional.
They needed to come off as lucky. Good, but not great. It couldn’t look too polished or too choreographed. Not only would the German se
curity services not believe it, neither would the Russians, once the CCTV footage was shared with them.
There had to be a little sand in the gears—a mistake or two, rookie moves that no pros would engage in. From front to back, it had to feel like a jihadist production. Harvath agreed and was already three steps ahead of him.
He laid out his ideas, and then went back and forth with both Farber and Bosch. Finally, they came to a meeting of the minds.
Some of the things that Harvath had suggested meant the operation would take longer than it should, but they would add legitimacy.
The hardest part would be going against years of training. There were certain things that had been drilled into all of them—certain things that they didn’t even consciously think about. They just instinctively knew to do them.
Tonight, though, they were going to have to turn several of those things upside down.
The big thing they had in their favor was that they had all spent countless hours dissecting tactical videos. Both the good guys, and the bad. They knew what the professionals would be looking for. That, they hoped, would give them the upper hand. As long as they all played their rolls as scripted, it should come off exactly as they wanted it to.
The last thing Harvath raised was footwear. It was a small detail, but an extremely important one. He didn’t want any of them wearing tactical boots.
Their big, black watches had to stay behind as well. Anything that could even remotely tag them as pros was off-limits. He didn’t care what some terrorists had been caught wearing in the past. None of that stuff could be part of this operation.
Farber and Bosch agreed. It wasn’t worth it. The entire team had already ditched their distinct boots and jackets for more low-key street clothes anyway. They were well trained and knew that their surveillance of the Russian Embassy required them to blend in.
With everything settled for the time being, Harvath got ready to take up his post when his phone rang. It was Lydia Ryan calling him from Langley.
“Hey,” he said, answering the call, “what’s up?”
“Turn on your TV,” the Deputy CIA Director replied.
“I don’t have one.”
“Do you have a laptop?”
“I do,” Harvath answered, as he opened Herman’s back up and pressed the space bar to wake it from sleep mode. “What’s going on?”
“The White House has just been attacked.”