Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 36

Mikhail Malevsky had identified his handler as Viktor Sergun. Whether or not that was Russian for big fucking headache, Harvath wasn’t sure, but that’s exactly what the man was.

Colonel Viktor Sergun was Russia’s military attaché to Germany, based out of the Russian Embassy in Berlin.

Malevsky had also confirmed that Sergun was also Sacha Baseyev’s handler. The GRU routinely placed operatives as military attachés in order to garner them protected, diplomatic status. If they were caught engaged in espionage, the worst a host country could do was to kick them out.

Sergun, though, had been involved in much more than espionage. He had been involved in terrorism — including the murder of the U.S. Secretary of Defense and his protective detail.

In Harvath’s book, that voided him — just as it had Malevsky — of any protections whatsoever. The call, though, wasn’t his to make. It had to come from D.C.

Going after Sergun meant raising the stakes again, dramatically. The Russians could consider it an act of war.

While they could have attempted the same argument over Malevsky, it would never stick. Not when the Germans had an investigation going into his organized crime practices and the United States had enough to paint him as a mobster as well. Sergun, though, was another matter.

Harvath had worked his way up the chain to get to Sergun. All he had to implicate the Colonel, though, was the coerced confession of Malevsky, the aforementioned mobster.

Russia could deny everything and paint Malevsky as a criminal who had gotten caught and would say anything to make a deal.

It would be a mistake for any of it to be made public, and the United States didn’t intend to. Harvath had been tasked to work outside the system—any system — and that’s what he would continue to do.

Once the word came back from D.C., Harvath set his own wheels in motion. They would have to move fast. If Sergun didn’t know Malevsky had gone missing, he soon would.

After cleaning up the barn, they ditched the State Police vehicle and anonymously tipped Bavarian law enforcement on where they could find their officers. Then Harvath and Herman drove their own cars to Berlin.

Harvath spent the entire six-plus hour drive on his phone, engaged in encrypted conversations with the United States. He’d been away from any source of news and had no idea that ISIS had released a video of the Secretary of Defense being attacked. Pulling off into a rest area, he and Herman watched it together.

Feelings of guilt washed over him anew. It was all connected. Somehow he was a factor in the equation. He was certain of it.

Beyond pissed off, he got back in his car and got back on the Autobahn. For a while, he couldn’t talk to anyone. Hearing that the Secretary and his detail had been assassinated was tough enough. Seeing it was gut-wrenching.

He let himself marinate in his anger for a while longer and then forced his mind to get refocused on what he needed to do. It wasn’t easy. The anger ate away at him like acid.

Getting back on the phone, he tried to let the demands of figuring out a strategy divert his attention. Slowly, a plan began to come together.

But even as it did, there were elements too sensitive to be discussed — even via encrypted communications. Those would have to wait until he arrived in Berlin and could speak with the CIA station chief directly.

One of the other issues Harvath had to figure out was what to do with Eichel and Malevsky — both of whom were making the trip in the trunk of Herman’s BMW. They couldn’t be released. Yet hanging on to them was not only a security risk but also a major pain in the ass.

As he neared Berlin and saw signs for the airport, a possibility took root in his mind. A lot would have to happen between where he was now and what he was thinking about.

Looking in his rearview mirror he saw Herman flash his high beams. Harvath moved over to let him pass.

Herman had been on his phone for a good chunk of the drive too. He didn’t want to keep the prisoners at his home in Berlin. That was a no-go. He promised Harvath he’d find them another location. And he had.

Harvath followed him off the motorway and into an old, east-side neighborhood called Friedrichshain. When the wall went up in 1961, the boundary between the U.S. and Soviet sectors had run right along its edge. In World War II, Friedrichshain had been one of the most heavily bombed areas of the city, as the Allies targeted its factories.

Now it was a funky neighborhood filled with young people and artists. There were cafés, pubs, and clubs, mobile phone stores, bank branches, and apartment buildings. For all its gentrification, it still had pockets of derelict and abandoned buildings. It was one of those buildings that Herman had been able to secure.

With bars over the windows and its walls covered with graffiti, the building appeared to have once housed a produce distributor. As soon as Herman pulled into its loading area, there was the sound of a winch being engaged and the rolling steel service door beginning to rise.

Inside were four rough-looking men dressed in black combat boots, jeans, and the black nylon flight jackets popular with the skinhead crowd.

These men weren’t skinheads, though. They had tight, military-style haircuts and wore black tactical watches. If Harvath had to lay odds, his guess would be that they were former commandos, just like Herman.

He followed the big BMW inside and parked next to it. Getting out, he joined his friend.

Herman shook hands with the men and then introduced Harvath.

Their names were Adler, Kluge, Bosch, and Farber. They had been members of Herman’s old counterterrorism unit, and now worked for his private security company. With the assignment growing more dangerous, and complex, Herman thought it would be a good idea to have a few more hands on deck.

Three of the men — Alder, Kluge, and Bosch, would have fit in anywhere in Europe or the United States. Farber, though, stuck out.

He had dark skin, dark hair, and very dark eyes. He looked like he would have been right at home on the streets of Riyadh or Tehran. “How’s your Arabic?” Harvath asked.

“Bismillah al rahman al Rahim,” he replied. In the name of God, most Gracious, most Compassionate.

Harvath knew the phrase. Every chapter in the Quran, except for the ninth, began with it.

“Ash-hadu an laa ilaaha illallah,” he continued. “Wa ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasulullah.” I bear witness that there is no god except Allah. And I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.

Herman looked at Harvath and smiled. “Not bad, eh? German-Jewish father and Lebanese mother. They met in Hamburg.”

Not bad at all. In fact, his Arabic was excellent. Perfect for what Harvath had planned. As long as witnesses bought it, that was all that mattered. Whether or not the Russians would buy it was something else entirely.

Harvath glanced at his watch. He was meeting the CIA’s Berlin station chief at a bar. It was only a few kilometers from the embassy and he wanted to get there first. There were a couple of things he and Herman needed to go over, though, before he could leave.

The man named Bosch gave them a quick tour of the building. There wasn’t much to see.

Two defunct walk-in coolers would be used to house the prisoners. They were virtually soundproof and could be locked from the outside.

A system of tiny, wireless cameras had been placed around the inside of the structure, as well as outside on the perimeter. They would be monitored around-the-clock.

Two offices had been set up with cots and sleeping bags. The toilets worked and there was even a shower, though no hot water. They’d have to rough it.

Once the tour was complete, they established a procedure for communications. Then Harvath left the building.

Walking the streets of Berlin, he felt an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. A lot of blood had been spilled here — by him and because of him. One of Herman’s people had even been killed.

Harvath didn’t like that the Russians had drawn him back. No matter how badly they were punished, they kept returning for more. Their expansionist desire to reconstitute the glory of the Soviet Union was as bad as the Islamists wanting to re-create their caliphate.

It reminded Harvath how necessary it was to confront both. Without a counterbalance, he had no doubt the world would descend into darkness and chaos.

But what was Russia’s play now? What did Salah, ISIS, Sacha Baseyev, Sergun, and the others have to do with it? What was the endgame?

Arriving at number 4 Mansteinstrasse, Harvath hoped to get some answers.

As he pushed open the door of the Leydicke pub and stepped inside, it was like walking back in time — right into the heart of the Cold War itself.