Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 28

Get out,” Alexandra Ivanova said as Harvath stepped into her room. “Now.”

He ignored the request, as well as the gun she had pointed at him. “You and I need to talk first.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about.”

Harvath closed the door behind him. “We have lots to talk about. Starting with what you’re doing here.”

“What I’m doing here? What are you doing here?”

“House hunting.”

“Get out,” Alexandra repeated, cocking the hammer of her Czech-made CZ pistol. “Before you ruin my assignment.”

“Care to tell me what it is?”

“Let me think,” she said. Then, after an extremely brief pause, she replied, “No.”

He had forgotten how good English could sound when spoken by a Russian woman, especially one so attractive.

Alexandra had always been a striking woman, but she was even better-looking than he remembered. She was tall, with long blond hair, and a very fit body.

“Maybe we can help each other,” he said.

“I doubt that.”

“C’mon, Alex.”

“Do you have any idea how long it has taken me to get this close to Malevsky?” she asked. “What I’ve had to put up with? The risks I have taken?”

“Risks? What are you talking about? Malevsky is one of yours.”

Alexandra glared at him. “Are you sure you have the right Malevsky?”

“Are you?”

“Mikhail Malevsky. Mafia from Moscow.”

“Correct,” said Harvath.

“And how do you know that you have the right person?”

“Because I’ve debriefed two assets on his payroll.”

“Russians?”

Harvath shook his head. “Germans. One works at Lufthansa, the other in operations at the Frankfurt airport.”

“I knew it,” she said. “I knew he had to have people on the inside.”

“Well, he does. Now will you put the gun down, please?”

Alexandra lowered her pistol. “So he’s using Frankfurt airport and not Munich.”

Harvath nodded. “You guys are worse than we are. Don’t your agencies talk to each other?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The SVR and the GRU. Don’t you communicate with each other?”

Alexandra looked worried. “What does the GRU have to do with Malevsky?”

Jesus, Harvath said to himself. They really don’t talk to each other. “Malevsky works for them.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t have the full picture. That’s why I’m here.”

“So paint a partial one for me,” Alexandra replied.

Harvath was reluctant to give up too much, too soon. He and Alex might have had a history together, but they played for completely different teams. “The GRU has an operative we’ve taken interest in.”

“That’s it?” she asked when he didn’t elaborate. Pretending to search for her weapon, she said, “Where’d I put my gun?”

Harvath knew her better than that. She knew exactly where her weapon was. “You heard about the U.S. Secretary of Defense?”

She nodded. “I did. I’m sorry.”

“We think the GRU operative we’re looking for had something to do with it.”

Alexandra was taken aback. “You think the GRU was behind the assassination of your Secretary of Defense? That’s insane.”

Maybe. But Russia had plotted worse, much worse in the past — and Harvath and Alexandra had untangled it together. He shot her a look that said all that and more.

“For argument’s sake,” she replied, “let’s say you’re correct. What’s your interest in Malevsky?”

“He is the middleman,” said Harvath. “He’s the link between the operative and the GRU.”

“Which you put together via your sources at Lufthansa and the Frankfurt airport.”

“In part,” he replied. “Now you tell me something I don’t know. What the hell are you doing here?”

Alexandra drew a deep breath and let it out, slowly. “ISIS.”

Harvath waited a beat, but when she didn’t continue, he said, “Keep going.”

She lowered her head. Shame? Embarrassment? He wasn’t sure, but right now he didn’t care. He wanted answers.

“The largest contingent of non-Arab ISIS fighters is made up of Russian speakers. Chechnya, Dagestan… I could keep going, but you get the point.”

Harvath certainly did get the point. Foreign jihadists, Chechens in particular, had flooded into Iraq during the war like a pustulent, festering sore that had been popped with a red-hot needle.

The Chechens had brain-dumped into the Iraqi resistance all the devious and deadly techniques they had developed fighting the Russians. It had been a huge game-changer and the American death toll had soared. People Harvath knew and cared about had been killed. He hated the fucking Chechens.

They had cycled their fighters through Iraq, they had gotten real battlefield experience, and then they had returned to Russia to kill.

“It’s Iraq all over again,” said Harvath. “You’re worried they’ll come back and cause trouble at home.”

Alexandra nodded. “It would be very bad for Russia.”

“Bad for Russia? Or the Russian government?”

“When innocent Russians get killed, it’s bad for Russia. That’s what I care about. The Russian government can kiss its own ass.”

After all this time, she hadn’t changed. She was still the same woman. The government had screwed her father — also an intelligence operative — and she still hadn’t forgiven them. She cared about her people and her country. Her government could go to hell — or, as she had said, kiss its own ass.

Hopefully, Harvath could still trust her. “I’m waiting for you to tell me something I don’t know. Why are you here? What drew you to Malevsky?”

She took a moment to compose her thoughts and then said, “He’s part of their finance mechanism.”

“Malevsky?”

Alexandra nodded. “He helps them get things they need. Medicine, night-vision goggles, parts for their aircraft.”

“What’s in it for him?”

“A bottomless well of priceless antiquities.”

Harvath felt a knot form in the center of his chest. “What do you mean?”

She shook her head. “Seriously? The Moscow syndicate has been moving billions in priceless artifacts for ISIS. They move it out of Syria and Iraq up into Europe and Russia.”

It was like someone had punched a hole right through the center of him. “Smugglers.”

“Some of the best.”

“What else do they move?” he asked.

Alexandra smiled. “Weapons — lots and lots of weapons. And not just low-end items like rifles and RPGs. They also move serious high-tech product. Ground-to-air missiles, air-to-air missiles — they are a high-speed operation.”

The knot in Harvath’s chest was spreading. “How did they move it?”

She reflected for a moment and said, “Most of the artifacts come through Turkey, hidden in ISIS oil tankers.”

“No. The weapons. How’d they move the weapons?”

Alexandra laughed. “They were actually very clever. They allegedly had a Muslim doctor on their payroll. He was able to exploit countless medical relief missions and convoys. The Red Crescent. The United Nations. You name it.”

Harvath, who had never had a weak stomach in his life, suddenly felt like he wanted throw up.