Foreign Agent (8 page)

CHAPTER 18

A
NTALYA

T
URKISH
R
IVIERA

T
he attack on the American Secretary of Defense had been spectacular. Everything had gone perfectly.

Baseyev had been prepared to lose all of his men. Instead, he had only lost three. That meant he was left with some cleaning up.

When the men gathered back at the warehouse, they were still jacked up on the new drugs he had given them that morning—pills to make them aggressive and hyperalert.

Drugs to mellow out the night before an attack and drugs to get amped up the day of executing an attack had become prevalent in terror circles. Now, Baseyev explained, it was time for them to come back down and relax. If they were nervous or overexcited, they would never make their escape.

He passed out bottles of water and tiny paper cups with a single pill in each. The men were smiling over their victory and chanting “Allahu’akbar,”
God is great!

They asked Baseyev questions about what life was going to be like in Syria, in the caliphate. He painted a rosy picture in return.

The men would be lauded as heroes, as lions. Already, word had traveled back to the Caliph himself about their success. Lavish apartments and wives had been chosen for each of them. Men would be placed under their command. They were nothing short of Islamic rock stars.

Even more important, Baseyev explained, Allah himself was not only
pleased, but had blessed their performance today. He had protected them. He had made them victorious in battle. It was to him that all of the glory was due.

The men halted their self-congratulatory fervor and asked Baseyev to lead them in prayers. He agreed, then made sure everyone had swallowed their pills.

Once they performed their ritual cleansing and had rolled out their prayer rugs, Baseyev began.

Muslims were not allowed to fidget or look around. They were to recite their prayers as if they were in the presence of God. It demanded a state of total concentration.

Where he was allowed to contribute additional verses from the Quran, Baseyev recited the longest ones he could remember.

Throughout their prayers, the men performed all of the required postures from bowing their foreheads to the ground in Sujud to rocking back and sitting on their haunches in Tashahhud.

Eventually, their movements began to slow and become more languid. Eyelids grew heavier and eyes began to glaze over. Baseyev slowed his speech and lowered his volume.

When the prayers were finished, he asked the brothers to remain sitting. Without explaining to them why, he began a lecture about one of the fathers of one of the wives of Mohammed. It was one of the most boring subjects he could think of. Soon the men’s heads were bobbing as they fought off sleep.

Standing, he continued his lecture and walked around behind the men. None of them noticed. Their blood was saturated with the heavy narcotic he had given them. The only thing easier than stealing candy from children was handing it to them.

He removed a .22-caliber SIG Sauer pistol from beneath his shirt and attached its suppressor. The Mosquito, as it was known, was ninety percent of the size of its famous big brother, the P226, but Baseyev didn’t need that much firepower. He didn’t need the noise, either.

With the suppressor attached, the only sound anyone would hear would be the movement of the Mosquito’s slide as it ejected spent shell casings and seated each new round.

It was time.

Praising the wisdom and glory of the prophet Mohammed, he walked the line, shooting each of the men in the back of their heads. After the last one, he turned and looked at his work.

All of the men were dead, slumped forward on their prayer rugs, facing Mecca. Baseyev glanced at his watch. He was right on schedule.

After prepping the explosives, he then conducted one final check of the warehouse before leaving.

When his private jet had been cleared for takeoff, he placed a call from his cell phone and initiated the countdown.

On the climb out from the airport, he got to see the warehouse explode. It was an amazing sight.

A gigantic fireball rolled up into the night sky over Turkey. The authorities could comb the site for months, but all they would find was what he wanted them to find.

Settling back in his seat, he reflected on what lay ahead. The best, most dramatic attack was yet to come. But the stakes were going to be much higher, the margin for error narrower. With each step forward, the risks and the danger would compound.

Baseyev was unafraid. In fact, he welcomed the opportunity. Operating on American soil was going to be his greatest achievement ever. And hopefully, it would bring the mightiest military in the world crashing down upon ISIS.

CHAPTER 19

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

S
enator Daniel Wells rolled over and picked up his iPhone from the nightstand. “What time is it?” he asked as he answered the call.

“A little after three a.m.,” his Chief of Staff said.

Her name was Rebecca Ritter and she could play the Washington game better than anyone he’d ever met. She was smart and aggressive, and never took no for an answer.

She was also a damn good-looking woman. She could play up or tone down her looks based on what any situation called for.

Rebecca could go from a sweet, demure Iowa farm girl any man would want to take home to meet his parents, to a show-stopping blonde in a little black dress who would have even the most devoted of husbands questioning whether she might be worth the risk.

Wells, though, had never touched her. It would have been like mixing alcohol and firearms. Guaranteed to be a lot of fun, right up until it wasn’t.

The Senator had greater ambitions than bedding the twenty-six-year-old graduate from the John F. Kennedy School of Government who sat on the other side of his office door. Besides, the more powerful he became, the more she wanted him. Once he was in the White House and certain of a second term, then maybe he’d entertain a little fun. Until then, though, there was too much to be done.

“Three a.m.?” he replied. “You must have something good.”

Rebecca had been warming the bed of a young man by the name of
Brendan Cavanagh. Mr. Cavanagh just happened to be the executive assistant to CIA Director Bob McGee.

“Do you want a blow-by-blow, or should I skip to the bottom line?”

Propping a pillow behind his head, Wells made himself comfortable. His wife, Nancy, was back in Cedar Rapids. He had the king-sized bed and the apartment all to himself.

Reaching for his cigarettes, he said, “Give me the blow-by-blow. Regale me.”

Rebecca did, in sordid detail.

She started with what she had been wearing, knowing that her boss’s taste ran to that kind of thing—especially stockings and heels. Suffice it to say that despite her husband’s appetites, Mrs. Wells was much more subdued.

Rebecca described dinner, drinks, and then everything else that had happened back at Cavanagh’s. She took her time and was particularly descriptive.

When she finished talking about the sex, she got to the real reason for waking Wells at 3 a.m.

The Senator took another drag off his cigarette and sat up straighter in bed. “Are you positive?”

“I was right there. I heard the entire conversation.”

“Then what happened?”

“We had sex once more in the shower and he rushed off to Langley.”

Wells shook his head. She was incorrigible. “You’re not still at his place, are you?”

“I wouldn’t have called you if I was.”

Smart girl
,
he thought. Picking up his watch, he looked at what time it was now. “Get some sleep.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I think I may go for a run.”

“Right now?”

“I need to think,” said Wells.

“Okay,” Rebecca replied. “I’ll see you in the office in a few hours.”

“Sounds good. And by the way? Excellent job.”

She didn’t reply. She simply hung up. Her boss was happy and she
needed some sleep. Come 6 a.m., Red Bull and a pretty face would only get her so far.

Wells, though, knew there was no going back to sleep. Not with what he had just learned. McGee should have been much stricter with the information floating around at the CIA.

Even then, Rebecca probably still could have gotten it. She was the smartest hire Wells had ever made. He didn’t care how much his wife hated her. Women like Nancy were always going to hate women like Rebecca. They were seen as threats. But in the right hands, they were gold mines.

Rebecca was his hard-bodied, big-titted golden calf. How he was going to get her information to market was another issue entirely.

What he had was too good not to use against President Porter. Rebecca, though, needed to be insulated. If they reverse-engineered it back to her then the jig was up. They would know Cavanagh was the source and the CIA would can him. Wells would then be left on the outside looking in. He had to figure out something else.

Changing into his running gear, he left his apartment and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he looked around. It was still dark. The sun would be up soon, but he knew this was the most dangerous time of day. Criminals were like vampires. They shrank from daylight, but the hour before sunrise was when they were most desperate.

He decided to run parallel to the Mall. There was plenty of street traffic. He’d be all right.

After loosening up, he began his run. It was always the best part of his day. No phone calls, no email, no pathetic alms-seeking constituents. Just him and the pavement.

He was always amazed at how poorly the grounds of the Mall were maintained. The sidewalks were cracked, the curbs crumbling. There were weeds in the grass and entirely too much garbage.

A shining city on a hill it was not. For the capital of the greatest nation in the history of the world, it was disgusting.

Cleaning up D.C. was going to be one of the first things he did as President. Better yet, he’d have Nancy make it one of her initiatives as
First Lady. She needed a pet cause anyway. This was a good one. It was good and nonpartisan. Perfect for her.

Within minutes, he had run two blocks. His heart rate was elevated and his endorphins were flowing. It was such a delicious rush. As far as he was concerned, a runner’s high was almost as good as sex.
Almost
.

Usually he let his mind wander on his runs. Today, though, he needed to focus. He had discovered a potential chink in the President’s armor. It was just begging to have a knife shoved through it.

But before he did that, he had to make sure the information was solid. What if Rebecca was wrong? What if she had misunderstood what she had heard?

There was some truth to the phrase
If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is
—especially in Washington.

As Wells continued to run, he saw a lone figure sitting on a bench.
Homeless,
he thought to himself. That was another thing his wife could get involved in. Good way to score points with the press and the public.

Passing the figure on the bench, he realized that he wasn’t homeless. He was an older man, buttoned up in a trench coat. He looked like something out of a spy movie. A newspaper sat folded in his lap.

That was when it hit him. Wells didn’t need to confirm Rebecca’s information. He needed someone else to do it. And he had the perfect person in mind.

That person, though, didn’t do anything for free. They would want something in return.

Looking at his watch, Wells decided to turn around and head back. There was a lot he would need to pull together.

CHAPTER 20

G
ERMAN
-A
USTRIAN
B
ORDER

F
rom Frankfurt it was a five-hour drive, nine if there was traffic. Harvath did it in four. And he did it with a body in the trunk.

Lydia Ryan had kept him waiting for an answer so long that he’d finally said
fuck this
, had gotten in his car, and had taken off. When seconds counted, too often the decisions at the CIA were hours away.

The name Mikhail Malevsky, though, was setting off alarm bells across Washington. Bad ones. Politics were now in play. Malevsky was related to the Russian Prime Minister.

They were second or third cousins, but close enough that Malevsky had managed to secure a position as a commercial attaché. By all accounts it was a charade, but it came with a diplomatic passport. And that put him in a gray zone.

He was suspected of being involved in a money-laundering operation in Munich. Everything was being run through a Russian-owned real estate investment company. While their transactions appeared legitimate, the source of the funds did not.

German authorities knew the money flowing into their country was tied to Russian organized crime. Proving it was another matter entirely. For the moment, Malevsky was beyond their grasp. But he wasn’t beyond Harvath’s.

The United States also knew Malevsky was dirty. They had seen enough evidence. His connection to Sacha Baseyev was one of the most damning details of all. Handling his diplomatic status and his family ties to the Russian PM, though, were the hard parts.

The Russians played a brutal form of hardball. If Harvath was caught, not only was he a dead man, but it would be open season on American diplomats everywhere. The Russians weren’t ones to let bygones be bygones.

In any other situation, the CIA would have found a way to work around Malevsky. Unfortunately, this wasn’t any other situation. There wasn’t a workaround. The path to Baseyev went straight through Mikhail Malevsky. He was the bad actor. They had no other choice than to take the chain off Harvath and trust him to do what he did best.

And what he did best was get results. No matter how much security or protection Malevsky had, Harvath would get to him. Where things went from there was entirely up to him. But considering the Russian’s background, Harvath didn’t expect him to be cooperative.

Based on the phone number from Eichel, Nicholas had been able to track Malevsky to a picturesque village in the Bavarian Alps called Berchtesgaden. The house wasn’t hard to find. It was a massive stone hunting lodge, painted lemon yellow, with its own private drive and wrought iron gates.

There was a F
OR
S
ALE
sign in front. A check of German property rec-ords indicated that a real estate investment company two hours away in Munich owned it.

In addition to a twelve-million-dollar price tag, the home had a twelve-million-dollar view. It looked south over the valley toward the third-highest mountain in Germany, the Watzmann. Its jagged peaks still covered in snow, the rolling Alpine meadows below it were filled with spring flowers.

Towering above the village was a mountain known as the Hoher Göll. Along its rocky sweep, Adolf Hitler had built his expensive vacation residence, the Berghof.

The village itself was a beautiful symphony of pastel-colored buildings, sloped cobblestone streets, and pitched rooftops. Here and there, hand-painted murals depicted traditional Bavarian life. Centuries-old church steeples soared skyward.

The Aga Khan, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, and Neville Chamberlain had all passed through Berchtesgaden to visit Hitler. Mussolini, Goering, and Goebbels had come too. Now Mikhail Malevsky was calling the village home.

It was hard to imagine that a place of such beauty could play host to such evil. Harvath, though, knew better.

He knew that evil could exist anywhere. And that evil was attracted to beauty. It was like a magnet and he had always wondered why.

He guessed it was because evil was incapable of creating anything. It only destroyed. And beauty, being the ultimate creation, was prized and desired by evil above everything but power.

Beauty was a prize, a pet—an illusion, meant to fool the rest of the world into believing evil was something else. It was why truly evil men craved it. It was an addiction that radiated from the very center of their dark souls. Don’t look at me, look
at this.
Now
look back at me. See the beauty I am capable of?

Art collections, wives, mistresses, cars, homes, golden guns—even diamond-encrusted motorcycles—evil always wanted more, bigger, brighter, better. It was a self-perpetuating cycle, a need that could never be truly fulfilled. Harvath had seen it over and over again. There was only one, terrifying exception—
jihadism
.

Islamic fundamentalists rejected beauty. Women were to be kept covered. Depictions of the human form were forbidden. Ornamentation and ostentation also forbidden. Theirs was a monastic fanaticism.

And while their acts of savagery were
unquestionably
evil, within their own faith, these were seen as pious tributes to God. Their warriors were practicing the truest, most basic form of Islam. It was the Islam that their prophet, considered the perfect man, had taught them. It was the Islam laid out clearly in the Quran. They were not perverting their religion—they were purifying it.

The jihadists believed themselves to be true keepers of the Islamic faith. Their time on this earth was fleeting. Everything they did was in service of their god. How they dressed, how they ate, how they bathed, how they prayed—every action, no matter how small, was a step on the stairway to Paradise. That was where their reward lay.

The greater their acts in honor of Islam were here on earth, the greater their chances of reaching Paradise.

They were the worst enemy civilization had ever faced. And in its history, civilization had never been weaker.

The Western world had withdrawn, gone soft and cold. There were very few left to protect it. Fewer still who were willing to risk political careers over hard, consequence-ridden choices.

America’s President, though, was willing to take the risk. He didn’t have a choice. The survival of the United States depended on it.

Green-lighting the operation on Malevsky was the right decision. A bloody trail of American bodies, including the U.S. Secretary of Defense, might have started with ISIS, but it didn’t end there. It kept going, right to the Russians’ doorstep. He had no idea why, but he intended to find out. He also intended to end it. Right here, right now.

Harvath checked his GPS and continued on. He only wanted a quick look at the house. The sooner he got to his destination and emptied the trunk, the better he was going to feel.