Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 24

It took the CIA longer to get back to Harvath than he had hoped. But they had come through. Actually, it was a combination of agencies that had come through.

Detecting whether or not there were devices on the perimeter of the property, and if so what kind of signal they were emitting, wasn’t an easy task. Satellites didn’t hover. They moved around the earth in an orbit and had limited windows within which to gather information.

After consultation with the National Reconnaissance Office and the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, a request was made to the German military for a pair of U.S. F-16 Falcons out of Spangdahlem Air Base to be allowed to modify the flight path of their evening training maneuver. They claimed to be testing a new terrain mapping system and wanted to do so over the mountains of Bavaria.

The Germans granted permission and within fifteen minutes both jets were airborne.

The sophisticated system they carried with them did a lot more than just map terrain. The jets were like Google’s “street view” cars, but on crack. They vacuumed up every single scrap of electrical information they came in contact with — Wi-Fi signals, cell phone information, radio traffic and satellite communications, even the RF codes for garage door remotes. It was an incredible piece of high-tech.

The jets had needed only one low-level pass. They turned on their vacuums, swept in over Berchtesgaden, and by the time anyone had heard them and knew they were there, they were already gone.

After landing back at Spangdahlem, the drives were pulled, the data was encrypted, and then it was all transmitted back to the United States.

Harvath had been correct. There were multiple objects around the perimeter of the property communicating with a satellite network.

Now that they knew where and what they were, the NSA got to work on how to interrupt them.

The operation was highly compartmentalized, contained to only a handful of personnel. That was good for secrecy, but not so good for a rapid turnaround. When they finally had it ready to go, Harvath heard a voice over his earpiece.

“Norseman, this is Round Top. We are ready to proceed on your command. Over.”

Harvath had gotten as close to the property as he dared. Until he knew the signals from the ground sensors had been interrupted, he didn’t want to go any further. “Roger that, Round Top,” he replied. It was cold. He could see his breath. “Stand by. Over.”

“Roger that, Norseman. Round Top is standing by. Over.”

In addition to all the supplies sitting back in the barn, Herman had delivered for Harvath in another department — tactical equipment.

He did one last check of his gear before saying, “Round Top, this is Norseman. On my mark. Over.”

“Roger that, Norseman. On your mark. Over.”

Adjusting his night-vision goggles, he counted backward aloud from five.

When he got to one, the voice over his earpiece said, “Norseman, this is Round Top. The satellite signal is interrupted. I repeat, the satellite signal is interrupted. You are good to go. Good luck, Norseman. Over.”

Harvath didn’t respond, he was already up and moving.

The ground was steep, the rocks sharp. He was wearing hiking boots, dark jeans, and a black North Face jacket. The sensors were only going to be down for a short time. He needed to move fast.

Twice, he lost his footing. Twice, he caught himself. If he hadn’t been wearing Herman’s gloves, his hands would have been hamburger.

At the bottom of the rocks, he sprinted for the woods. Once he was in the trees, he relayed a situation report, or SITREP for short. “Round Top, this is Norseman. I’m on the beach. Going to zero comms. Over.”

Round Top acknowledged that Harvath had reached the trees and wanted radio silence by responding with two squelch clicks over his earpiece. It was now game on. There would only be communication if he initiated it.

He removed the 9mm Heckler & Koch USP SD Herman had given him and spun a GEMTECH suppressor onto its threaded barrel. It was loaded with subsonic ammunition and he carried two extra magazines. If bullets started flying, though, that meant something had gone very wrong.

His goal was to channel the Sierra Club — get in, get out, and leave no trace.

It was a serious gamble. If Malevsky discovered that his security had been breached, he was going to be a lot harder to get to. He was either going to add additional layers, or go to ground. Neither option made Harvath’s ultimate assignment any easier.

This foray, though, was an acceptable, and even necessary, risk. It had to be done. No one back at Langley disagreed.

With Herman’s gloves tucked in his pocket and his hands wrapped around the butt of the weapon, he picked his way through the remaining trees and got ready to make a sprint to the first structure.

“Round Top, this is Norseman,” he whispered. “Home plate to first base. All good?”

He waited and one squelch click was returned. All good. Via their current satellite, they weren’t seeing any trouble between him and his first target.

Harvath swept his night-vision goggles back and forth over the stretch of meadow he would have to cross. It looked clear. Taking a deep breath, he counted to three and took off running.

The ground was uneven, but mostly grass and much less rocky. As long as he didn’t hit any holes, he’d be fine. He could already see the residential building not too far ahead. There were no lights inside. It looked like everyone was—

Suddenly, two digital squelch clicks chirped over his earpiece. Harvath dropped, flipped off his goggles, and buried his face in the ground. Somebody stateside had seen something.

He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even breathe. All he could do was listen. But there was nothing. What the hell had they seen?

He laid there on the cold ground wondering, until the wind gave him an answer. Above the smell of cold, damp earth, he began to detect something else — cigarette smoke.

Somebody was taking a smoke break and must have wandered in his direction.

He took slow, controlled breaths, trying to gauge the smoker’s distance, but the scent faded. Did the smoker walk away?

Almost in answer to his question, he received the “all clear” from Round Top — three squelch clicks.

Replacing his goggles, he allowed his eyes to readjust and then slowly looked up and assessed his situation.

There was no one in sight. The smell of cigarette smoke had also all but evaporated.

Pushing himself up, he moved toward the structure. Quickly. Quietly. As he moved, he swung his head from left to right, scanning for threats, his suppressed pistol up and ready to fire.

The main door for the residential building was unlocked and he let himself in. He had rebuilt everything from memory — what he had seen in each room, what staff members belonged to each apartment. She wasn’t in this building. Malevsky and his wife would want her close to them, close to the children. She would be inside the main house, but there was someone else of value that slept here. The chef.

Harvath had seen him while touring the kitchen with Jakob. He had noticed the broken capillaries of the man’s nose, the tremor in his hand, the coffee cup nearby, filled with something other than coffee.

As Jakob had taken him through the residential building, Harvath had identified the man’s apartment by the personal photos on his dresser, the Russian cookbooks on his bookshelf. The poorly hidden vodka bottle in the bathroom had confirmed his suspicions.

Standing outside his door now, Harvath could hear the man’s snoring. It sounded like the bellows of a gigantic blast furnace. In and out, in and out. It was like someone was trying to parallel-park a mile-long freight train.

Harvath tried the chef’s doorknob. It was unlocked. He slowly pushed the door open so as not to make any noise and then stepped inside.

The man hadn’t even made it to his bed. He lay passed out on his couch. There was a half-eaten plate of food on the coffee table, accompanied by the “coffee” cup Harvath had seen him with earlier. He was still wearing his uniform.

Harvath shook his head and scanned the living room until he found what he was looking for. The chef had dropped his keys on the floor.

Carefully, so as not to make a sound, he picked them up.

Now all Harvath had to do was to get into the house — something that was going to be much easier said than done.