Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 35

Next to the attack during his childhood, swimming through the cave system had been one of the most terrifying things Sacha Baseyev had ever experienced. He never wanted to do anything like it again.

Flooding from the rainwater had been a serious problem. Multiple areas that should have contained pockets of breathable air had been completely submerged.

In one area, where they had been able to surface, his guide had discussed turning back. The young man was afraid that they wouldn’t make it.

Quietly, Baseyev made plans to kill him and take his diving cylinders. There were guidelines and line markers to point the way. He could have made it without him. Unless something went wrong.

The doubt gnawed at him and so he pushed the young man to see the journey through. The young Mexican was extremely reluctant, but he must have seen something about Baseyev. He must have seen that his own life hung by a very tenuous thread at that moment. Wisely, he chose to press on.

When they emerged on the U.S. side of the border, a smuggler was waiting for them. He had protein bars, bottles of water, and a fresh change of clothes for Baseyev.

Even though he had been wearing a dry suit, he was drenched, having sweated through what he had on beneath.

He washed himself in the cold cave water, put on the new clothes, and followed the smuggler out to his battered Ford F-150 pickup.

Everything he owned at that moment was in a small, sealable bag he had carried inside the suit. He had cash, credit cards, false identification, and a smartphone with spare SIM cards.

The smuggler drove Baseyev into the nearest town, Laredo, Texas, and dropped him at the bus station on Salinas Avenue. From there, Baseyev was on his own.

With plenty of stores within walking distance, he was able to purchase everything he needed. Once his shopping was complete, he hailed a cab and headed out to the airport. A Cessna Citation M2 business jet was waiting for him when he arrived.

After shaking hands with the captain, he climbed aboard and stowed his bag.

The interior was tight, but the caramel-colored leather seats were wide enough and could be folded flat. All he cared about was sleep. As soon as the jet lifted off, he closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep.

When he awoke, the jet was on final approach to Manassas Regional Airport in Virginia. He had slept the entire trip.

He cleaned himself up in the restroom of the FBO and then had a cup of coffee while he waited for his Uber vehicle to arrive.

The explosion of apps like Uber and Airbnb had been a godsend in his line of work. No matter what hat he wore — assassin, terrorist, spy — he didn’t need a complicated support network of safe houses, cars, and dead drops. And many of the things he did need, especially in America, were only a click away.

The credit cards and bank accounts he used wound through false holding companies and addresses around the globe that were empty, or simply didn’t exist. Trying to track him based on his financial activity was useless. The GRU had created a maze of blind alleys and dead ends.

And considering what Baseyev was about to undertake, they fully expected the Americans to pick every single transaction apart. But by then, it would be too late. The damage would already be done.

The distance from the Manassas airport to downtown Washington, D.C., was only thirty miles, but it took almost two hours in traffic.

Baseyev had the Uber driver drop him at the Marriott Marquis on Massachusetts Avenue. It was adjacent to the convention center where he said he was attending a conference for human resource managers.

In the lobby, he found a bellman and checked his bag in their temporary luggage storage. He then exited the hotel through another entrance.

Somehow, he had thought Washington, D.C. — the seat of American power — would feel different. He had expected to be awed. He wasn’t.

Turning right, he walked down New York Avenue. One thing he was struck by was how many cameras there were. Cameras were excellent for solving crimes, not necessarily for preventing them.

With that said, software had gotten to the point where computers could tell if a bag had been left unattended, or could be directed to find things like a “man on a yellow bicycle.” Computers were not going to stop what he had planned.

At 15th Street, New York Avenue ended and Baseyev stepped onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Instantly, he could feel an electricity course through his body.

The defenses, the countermeasures, the things most normal people would never notice, were all around him now. The lengths to which the Americans had gone was ridiculous. All this to protect one man. One building.

But that man and that building were both symbolic — facts not lost upon Baseyev.

When he had drawn even with it he had to stop and look. The awe was there now. The White House and all it represented was staring right back at him through its wrought iron fence. It was dramatic.

A tourist standing nearby asked him to take her family’s photo. He declined, politely, and began walking again.

Four blocks later, he removed his phone and checked his GPS. Looking up, he saw the building he was headed for.

Not too close and not too far. It was just right.

By the time the United States figured out what it had been used for, he would be long gone.