Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 21

The old farm was fifteen kilometers outside the village. Harvath pulled around behind the faded barn and parked. It felt good to get out and stretch his legs.

The location couldn’t have been better. Tucked back into the mountain, it was surrounded on three sides by sheer rock walls. The meadow sloped down, away from the house, and provided a clear view of the road. There were no neighbors.

Looking inside the barn, he saw a black 7 Series BMW. A pile of home improvement supplies was stacked next to it. He didn’t see the owner and so struck off for the house.

It was a two-story chalet with flower boxes. Its massive roof overhung a long balcony on the second floor. The back door was unlocked. Harvath let himself in.

A large pair of boots sat on the tile floor. A leather jacket hung from a wooden peg. The walls were covered in rough-hewn planks. Low beams lined the ceiling. From deeper inside came the smell and crackle of a fire in a fireplace.

Harvath removed his smartphone. He wanted to handle the confirmation first.

Moving forward, he peered into each room as he passed. Good habits were good habits, regardless of the situation.

It was in the living area that he found the BMW’s owner — an enormous, six-foot-four grizzly bear of a man. He was seated at a table near the fire. In front of him were a laptop, two Beretta pistols, and a large bottle of beer.

Harvath typed CONFIRMED and hit Send on his phone.

Moments later the man’s computer chimed. “I like that,” he said over his shoulder. “Do it again.”

“Half now. Half when the job’s over,” Harvath replied. “Is there anything to eat?”

“Kitchen,” the man grunted.

The fridge was stocked with meat, lots of it. There were also several dozen eggs, bottled water, and more beer. On the counter were bags of nuts and what looked like packages of German beef jerky.

Harvath prepared a plate, opened a bottle of beer, and returned to the living room.

The giant at the table stood to greet him. He had a gray beard now. His hair was salt-and-pepper, but still cut short. “You’ve gotten smaller,” he said.

Harvath pointed at the man’s stomach and joked, “You too.”

“No carbs. No sugar. No fun,” he replied. Then, looking at his beer added, “Okay, maybe a little fun.”

Harvath smiled and joined him at the table. No sooner had he set his plate down than the man wrapped his huge arms around him. “You look good,” he said. “Older, but still good.”

The bear’s name was Herman Toffle. He had been a member of Germany’s renowned counterterrorism unit, GSG 9. They had met in a cross-training exercise back when Harvath was with the SEALs. Herman had an irreverent sense of humor, and they had become friends almost instantly.

“How’s Diana?” Harvath asked once Herman had released him from the vise.

“She’s good. She sends her love.”

“Tell her I said thank you for setting all of this up.”

Herman waved it off. “No problem. It belongs to some girlfriend of hers from Munich. She and her husband and kids come down a couple of times in the winter to ski. Maybe once or twice in the summer to swim in the Königssee. That’s it. The rest of the time, they rent it out to vacationers.”

“Hopefully, the fee will cover it.”

The man laughed. “It will more than cover it.”

Now that he had gone into the contracting world, Harvath had access to a substantial discretionary account. Herman was a professional. He should be paid. Not only did he warrant a premium for making himself available at the last minute, but he also deserved a little extra for all of the times in the past he had helped out and had received zero compensation in return.

He was a good friend. And now that Harvath was in a position to pay him back, it was the very least he could do.

After being shot and left with a permanent limp, Herman had been forced out of GSG 9. He went to work for a German arms manufacturer and did very well, parlaying his money into several successful ventures — including a private security company.

With the success of his businesses, he and his wife, Diana, were able to bounce back and forth between a luxury apartment in Munich and an impressive home in Berlin.

It had been years since Harvath had seen him, and in a true testament to their friendship, they picked right up where they had left off.

Herman asked about Harvath’s good friend and former boss, Gary Lawlor. Harvath asked about Max and Sebastian — two commandos Herman had enlisted to assist them on a previous assignment.

Soon, though, the conversation turned to Harvath’s current assignment. “I saw the gear in the barn. Was that everything on the list?” he asked.

“I had to improvise a little,” said Herman. “I think we’ll be okay.”

Harvath trusted him. “Where do you want to put our guest?”

“If we leave him in the barn, he’s going to freeze to death.”

“I might be okay with that.”

Herman shrugged and took a long pull from his beer. This was Harvath’s operation, not his. He’d do what he was told.

“We’re going to need surveillance,” Harvath continued. “Langley is having a satellite retasked, but I want to get some actual eyes on.”

“What are you thinking?”

“The ideal situation would be to pose as a potential buyer and actually get a tour of the property.”

Herman took another sip of beer before responding. “A home that expensive, though, is only going to be opened to pre-approved buyers. You’d not only need financial statements, but a relationship with an established realtor.”

He was right, and Harvath had already thought of that. “There might be a way around that.”

“Such as?”

“The CIA has assets everywhere, but especially inside the United States.”

Herman looked at him. “I thought that was illegal.”

“Technically, they can’t run operations in the U.S. But they can, and they do, recruit Americans to help with operations outside the country.”

“So how does that help us?”

“There’s a real estate firm in Beverly Hills. They cater to an exclusive clientele and specialize in high-end estates. The CIA has used them before.”

“And they’ll vouch for you as the buyer?”

Harvath shook his head. “Not as the buyer. As someone who works for the buyer. Someone passing through who thinks the home may be perfect for his employer. They’ll pitch it that I’d like to get in to see it before I fly home.”

“When are you flying home?”

“Let’s say, tomorrow. If they’re serious about selling, I’ll get a showing.”

“And if they aren’t?” Herman asked.

“We go to Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?”

Harvath smiled. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Terrific.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Sure we will,” Herman replied as he stood to get some food for himself. “I think my fee just went up.”

“In that case,” said Harvath as he tossed him his car keys, “you get to empty the trunk.”

“Where’d you park?”

“Behind the barn.”

“I promised Diana we wouldn’t do anything illegal.”

That made Harvath laugh. “You shouldn’t lie to your wife,” he said as he dug into his plate. “It’s bad for your marriage.”

Herman went for his boots and jacket. “Don’t let the fire die. And don’t go anywhere. When I get back I want you, the bachelor, to tell me all about how marriage works.”

Harvath flipped his friend the finger.

A few seconds later, he heard Herman open the door to go out to the barn and shouted, “He’s pretty heavy. So remember to lift with your legs!”