Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 13

According to Nicholas, the other Lufthansa flight attendants who shared the apartment were all on active trips outside the country. None of them were expected back tonight.

Harvath had been given a street address and an apartment number. That was it. He had no idea what the interior layout looked like.

He did a discreet reconnaissance, noting the entrance, exits, and which apartments had lights on. When he was ready, he picked the lock of the rear door at the parking lot and snuck inside.

Pausing in the lobby, he checked the mailbox for the apartment. It was empty. Someone had recently picked up the mail.

He found the stairs and walked up to the second floor. Looking at the number plates, he figured out which one he wanted. The only units he had seen from outside with lights on were at the other end of the hall. But just because he hadn’t seen any lights didn’t mean nobody was home.

Jet lag was an occupational hazard for pilots and flight attendants. The airlines were also very strict about how many hours of sleep they were required to have before flights. Many employees invested in blackout curtains.

Approaching the door, Harvath used his right hand to adjust the .40-caliber Glock 22 tucked in the Sticky holster at the small of his back. The CIA had arranged for it to be left for him at a small hotel near the airport. In his left hand was a bouquet of flowers.

Looking at the flight schedules of the roommates, he noted one who had been assigned at the last minute. After a quick review of her Facebook and Instagram accounts, it was obvious the attractive young woman liked to party and had a lot of male friends. It wouldn’t have been a stretch to believe that she had forgotten to cancel a date before leaving on a trip.

Standing outside the door, he listened for a moment. There were no sounds from inside. He knocked and waited. No one answered. He tried once more. Nothing.

He tried the knob, but the door was locked. Removing his picks, he let himself in.

The apartment was lit by the faint glow of the streetlamps outside. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust.

Setting the flowers down, he removed his Glock and began moving from room to room.

The decor was sleek and minimalist. The artwork tasteful, but inexpensive. It looked like an IKEA ad. The only place where any real money had been spent was in the kitchen.

From the Le Creuset cookware to the expensive Japanese chef’s knives displayed like museum pieces, it was obvious that someone took their cooking seriously.

There was a row of cookbooks with titles in German, French, and English. In one drawer he found a stack of food magazines. The fridge and cabinets were filled with a wide array of gourmet food items, including caviar, truffles, and foie gras.

There was clothing in the closets and a smattering of personal items scattered about, but other than that, the apartment was much more hotel than home.

On his second sweep, Harvath looked for places Baseyev could have hidden an emergency cache. Any operative worth his salt would have kept one nearby. They usually included cash, a burner phone or clean SIM cards, and a weapon. Medical supplies, disguises, and even fake identification might be a part of it as well. It was all based upon what the operative or his organization thought was needed.

Harvath was incredibly thorough in his search, but turned up nothing. If Baseyev did have an “oh shit” kit, it wasn’t in the apartment.

The entire trip to Frankfurt was a bust. It pissed Harvath off. He hated dead ends and wasted time. The best the CIA could do at this point was to wire up the apartment and sit on it. If Baseyev came back, they’d need a team ready to put a bag over his head and transport him to a black site for a nice long chat.

In the meantime, the CIA would also want to approach the roommates to see what they knew. Even the best operative could make a mistake. Baseyev might have screwed up at some point and let something slip that might be helpful.

Putting everything back exactly as he had found it, Harvath retrieved the flowers and left the apartment. He needed to report in. The chain of command, though, was a bit murky.

Technically, he worked for a private organization called The Carlton Group. Reed Carlton was an iconic spymaster who had established the Central Intelligence Agency’s counterterrorism center. He put the old in “old school.”

After decades of faithful service, he had gotten out. He couldn’t stand the careerists and the bureaucracy anymore. He saw a real future for an organization able to operate without red tape and beyond the reach of Congress. The Defense Department and the CIA turned out to be two of his best customers. They, in turn, always wanted his best operative.

Carlton had taught Harvath everything he knew about the espionage business. Coupling that with his SEAL background, Harvath had vaulted to the top of the food chain. He was an apex predator, a hunter without equal.

Tucked away, compartmentalized, was the man himself. He liked his work. He probably liked it too much.

It cast a shadow over everything else in his life. And the problem with shadows was that it was very hard for anything to grow in the shade.

He wanted the American Dream, but he had been called to protect it. There were wolves and the wolves needed to be hunted. He had a lot of hunting left in him.

What he didn’t have a lot left of was time to start a family. It was slipping away. He had spent his entire adult life being loyal to everyone. Everyone but himself. At some point, the torch had to be passed. At some point, he had to let someone else take his place on the wall.

Not today, though. There was way too much at stake.

Back in his rental car, Harvath used his encrypted phone to text the CIA’s Deputy Director, Lydia Ryan. Ryan was Bob McGee’s right hand at Langley and, like McGee, had been an outstanding field operative, handpicked by the President to help rebuild the Central Intelligence Agency from within.

By using The Carlton Group, the CIA was able to push the boundaries of what they were legally allowed to do. It also presented them, and, more important, the President, with plausible deniability if any of those actions came to light.

Dry hole, he typed. No sign of Pitchfork.

Pitchfork was the code name they had assigned to Baseyev.

Stand by, Ryan replied.

Several seconds later, his phone rang.

“Was it empty?” she asked when Harvath activated the call.

“No. It’s furnished and in use.”

“How long since he was last there?”

“No clue. We could do a search for CCTV cameras and pull the footage if you want.”

“Right,” said Ryan, distracted.

“You should also put a full surveillance package on the building.”

“Right.”

Harvath could tell she wasn’t paying attention. “Do you want to call me back?”

“What? No. I’m sorry.”

Something was up. “What’s going on?”

“More intel just came in regarding what happened in Turkey,” she said.

“Turkey? What happened?”

There was a pause. “Nobody told you?”

“Told me what? I’ve been in the field.”

He could hear her let out a long exhalation. It sounded like air being let out of a tire.

“Defense Secretary Devon is dead,” said Ryan. “His motorcade came under attack.”

“Where? When?”

“Antalya. About four hours ago.”

Harvath had known Richard Devon and had liked him, a lot. He had also known several of the men on his protective detail. “Did anyone survive?”

“No,” Ryan replied. “They’re all dead.”

He couldn’t believe it. “How the hell did this happen?”

“We don’t know. There’s a lot of moving pieces. We’re trying to get our arms around it.”

“Who’s behind it?”

“It looks like ISIS.”

“Come on, Lydia,” he replied. “First Anbar, and now this? ISIS isn’t that good. And nobody is this lucky. Who the hell is helping them?”

“That’s the question we’re all asking.”

There were a ton of things he wanted to say. None of them were helpful, or appropriate. Holding his anger in check, he asked the only question he could: “What can I do?”

The Deputy Director of the CIA didn’t hesitate. “Find Pitchfork,” she said. “Fast.”