Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 37

The E. & M. Leydicke had been owned and operated by the Leydicke family for more than one hundred years. It was a traditional German pub — dark with heavy oak tables and lots of carved wood. Its most significant feature, though, was barely visible.

Behind the bar was a beer stein. Its base was wrapped with a piece of barbed wire. The wire had been cut in the middle of the night from the Berlin Wall itself.

The words Für die Sicherheit was inscribed upon it. For the security. It was the motto of an elite, highly classified American black ops unit that had been stationed in Berlin during the Cold War.

The members posed as everyday Berliners. Across the city, they had hidden weapons, gold coins, explosives, and radio equipment. If the Russians had ever overrun the wall, it had been their job to launch guerilla warfare.

The Leydicke had been the team’s unofficial headquarters. As part of his initiation, each operative was required to sneak up onto the wall using night-vision goggles, snip a piece of barbed wire, and return without being caught by the Soviets.

Each man then received his own, numbered stein with his piece of barbed wire wrapped around the base. Hellfried Leydicke, the bar’s owner, received his own special mug as a thank-you for supporting the unit.

As far as Harvath knew, there were still items buried in the basement and sealed up behind the plaster walls. The entire establishment was a living time capsule.

When Harvath had last come to Berlin, it was to rescue one of the team members. Though years had passed and the unit had been shut down, it had been reactivated. In the process, a good friend of Harvath’s — a man who had been like a second father to him — had been taken hostage.

A complicated trail of clues had led him to number 4 Mansteinstrasse and Hellfried Leydicke — a short, balding man with wire-rimmed glasses, a gut that hung over his apron, and a wildly unkempt mustache.

He had a reputation as a man not to be trifled with and was extremely rough with patrons he believed were not drinking enough.

On the first day Harvath had arrived, Leydicke had given him a tough time. He pretended to have no idea what Harvath was talking about or whom he was looking for. Everything changed, though, as soon as Harvath pointed out the stein, and recounted its significance.

Looking around now, he was disappointed. Leydicke was nowhere in sight. The pub was half full. Mostly locals, taking up all the spots at the bar.

Harvath found a small table tucked in the back. It had a halfway decent view of the front door, but more important, would allow for a private conversation.

Though it was what he wanted, he knew better than to order a cup of coffee. He asked for a beer and if Herr Leydicke was in.

“Nein,” his server replied, before heading off to get his drink. It was good to see that their customer service standards hadn’t changed.

Once the server returned with his beer, Harvath settled in to wait for the station chief to show up.

Helen Cartland appeared twenty minutes before their appointed rendezvous. She walked in, removed the hat she had been wearing, and began to scan the pub.

She was an attractive woman in her late forties with short brown hair and a hip sense of style. In boots and a moss-green hunting jacket, she came off as more British than American.

Stopping at the crowded bar, Cartland ordered a glass of white wine and took her time. She had seen Harvath, but she wasn’t in any hurry to approach. She was a professional. She wanted to get a good feel for the room and who was in it before she joined him.

Five minutes later, she picked up her glass and walked over.

“I’m sorry, but did we meet last year in Munich, at Oktoberfest?” she asked.

Harvath studied her for a moment. “I think we did. It was in the Käfer tent, wasn’t it?”

Cartland nodded. “May I join you?”

“Please,” he replied, standing, as she took the seat across from him. Once she was seated, he thanked her for coming.

“Washington didn’t give me much choice. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what I can,” said Harvath.

“Why don’t we start with who you are?”

“You can call me Phil.”

Cartland paused, then replied, “Phil.”

She obviously didn’t believe him. That didn’t matter. She didn’t need to know his real name. The less she knew, the better.

“Okay, Phil,” she continued, “I assume you’re a green badger of some sort?”

Green badger was a term used to describe outsiders hired by the CIA. Harvath nodded.

“Corporate or independent contractor?” she asked.

“Does it make a difference?”

“It might help me understand the scope of this.”

Harvath drained the last sip of his beer and held up the empty glass when the server went by. “You want another?” he asked, pointing at her wine.

She shook her head.

Harvath indicated to the server that only he needed a new drink and then turned his attention back to the station chief.

The CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence and its National Clandestine Service were full of contractors. Many of them were even Agency alums who had retired, only to return on special contracts that paid tons more.

“You looking to jump ship?”

“Me?” she replied, her voice kicking up an octave. “Just curious. That’s all.”

She was interested. That was dangerous. There was nothing wrong with someone thinking ahead career-wise. A station chief doing it openly with a stranger, though, was unsettling.

Harvath shifted the conversation to the reason they were there. “What can you tell me about Sergun?”

Cartland rattled off his dossier from memory. “Divorced. Well educated. Fifty-eight years old. No children.”

“Girlfriend?”

She shook her head.

“Boyfriend?”

“No romantic involvement in Berlin that we know of.”

“How about an address?”

Cartland removed a package of cigarettes from her purse and placed them on the table. “There’s an SD card in there. It has the whole work-up we did on him when he got posted here.”

“Photographs?” Harvath asked.

She nodded.

“How does he get to work? Does he have a driver?”

“No,” Cartland answered. “The Russians are notoriously cheap. Only the ambassador gets a full-time driver. Anyone else who needs a vehicle has to request a Volkswagen from the small pool they keep at the embassy.”

“So does he walk? Ride a bike? Taxis?”

“He walks. His apartment isn’t far from the embassy.”

That was a piece of good news. Taking Sergun from a vehicle, with or without a driver, was something he didn’t want to hassle with.

“Anything else?” Harvath inquired. “Hobbies? Does he like sports? Is he a drinker?”

Cartland laughed. “What Russian isn’t a drinker?”

She had a point. “What I meant was,” Harvath clarified, “is there anything we can use to our advantage? Does he have a place he frequents?”

“Pasternak.”

“As in Boris Pasternak? The author?”

The station chief nodded. “Restaurant Pasternak. It’s named after him. They specialize in Russian food. A lot of the older Russian embassy employees go there for drinks and dinner on Friday. Normally, Sergun’s with them.”

“And after?”

“He zigzags back to his apartment.”

“Meaning he’s drunk?”

“He may have downed a couple, but he’s still switched on. He runs a good SDR to make sure he isn’t being followed. He’s always on his guard, so be careful. Don’t underestimate him.”

“I won’t,” Harvath replied, his plan crystalizing in his mind. “What can you tell me about the area around the restaurant?”

“On a Friday night? It’s busy. Real busy. Not a place to be if you’re looking to stay under the radar. Going unnoticed around there is almost impossible.”

Good, Harvath thought, as the server returned with his beer. Going unnoticed was the very last thing he had in mind. As in Vienna, he wanted their act to be seen.

The one thing that concerned him, though, was, could they afford to wait until tomorrow night?

They needed to get to Sergun sooner rather than later. He was the key to tracking down Baseyev. The longer they waited, the greater the chance that something might happen.

Harvath glanced at his watch and did the math. They could make their attempt in the morning, but Sergun was a soldier. If he was the “up and at his desk before anyone else” type, they might not have the public audience they needed.

The only thing that made sense was to grab him on the way home — either from the Embassy, or better yet, from the restaurant.

Harvath understood that he didn’t have a wide latitude of choices. He just prayed that he wouldn’t regret his decision.