Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 42

The drive from Berlin to Frankfurt was just over an hour and they were careful to obey the speed limit. By the time they arrived at the airport, it was shortly before sunrise.

Moving people and black-market antiquities through any airport, much less one the size of Frankfurt International, required a network of people on the take. Eichel had given all of them up.

Hoping to purchase his freedom, he had surrendered the names and phone numbers of everyone at the airport who was working for him. He would have to do a lot more than rat his associates out, though, and Harvath had explained what it was. Eichel had nodded in agreement and had begun making phone calls.

There was a small checkpoint entrance on the far northeast side of the airport. When they pulled up, it was unmanned.

Within seconds, the yellow concrete bollards in front of them lowered, the gate drew back, and the red- and white-striped security arm blocking their way was raised.

“Open sesame,” Herman remarked as he drove onto the airport grounds and headed for the civil aviation area.

Outside a windowless gray hangar, a German Customs and Immigration official sat in a white Mercedes waiting for them.

When they pulled alongside, the man rolled his window down and Harvath handed over an envelope.

After counting the money, the official wished them a good flight, rolled his window up, and drove away.

“It pays to know people,” said Herman as he watched the Mercedes drive off. “I never get through the airport this fast.”

It hadn’t been cheap. While Eichel’s man was crooked, he wasn’t stupid. He had made sure he was well compensated for his risk.

Helen Cartland, the CIA’s Berlin station chief, had flat-out refused the amount of money Harvath had requested. Lydia Ryan had to call from Langley and order her to release it.

When Cartland showed up at the produce warehouse to deliver the cash, she presented Harvath with a receipt and demanded that he sign it. She didn’t want her ass on the line for such a large sum.

Harvath shook his head and signed her slip of paper.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked when she read his signature. “Justin Credible?”

He winked at her and had Bosch walk her back out to her car as they finished getting the prisoners ready.

Then, once they were all prepped, they were loaded into the trunk of the BMW. Bosch and Farber followed in Harvath’s vehicle, which they would be returning for him.

Inside the hangar, a sleek Bombardier Global 6000 business jet owned by the CIA was waiting. Herman and his men helped him board and secure the prisoners. All three were wearing blindfolds, hoods, and earmuffs.

Herman offered to come along to help with security, but Harvath turned him down. It was a short flight. He’d be fine.

They said their goodbyes at the bottom of the airstairs. Harvath thanked Herman and his men for their help.

Fifteen minutes later, he had a mug of hot coffee in his hand, the powerful aircraft was thundering down the runway, and the sun had begun to rise.

Harvath sat back in his chair and watched out the window as the pilots banked and turned the jet south toward the Mediterranean.

Normally, this would have been a prime opportunity for him to get some sleep. But with prisoners on board, that was out of the question.

Instead, he used the time to let his mind wander. There were still so many questions he didn’t have the answers to.

No sooner had he begun to list them than they began to crash up against each other like a pile-up on a busy interstate. He had questions about Salah, Malevsky, and Sacha Baseyev. What the Russians knew. What they didn’t know. What was next and who was responsible.

It was all Harvath could do not to start interrogating Sergun right there on the plane. Lydia Ryan, though, had been absolutely specific on how it was to be handled. The instructions had come from her boss, Director McGee. And Harvath knew that McGee had issued the orders based on the wishes of the President. He would have to wait until he got to Malta.

As he watched the blue-black sky turn orange, he thought about Lara. It had been days since he had spoken with her. She’d be back in Boston by now.

Knowing her, she’d probably spent a little time with her family and then headed right into the office, jet lag be damned.

Staring at the three hooded figures in the back of the plane, he took a sip of his coffee. It was hard to say that this was better than being in Boston with Lara.

For a moment, he thought about what moving to Boston might be like. D.C. was where his career was. At least that was what he had always told himself.

Working at The Carlton Group had a lot of upside. His boss was a legend in the spy game, the money was fantastic, and even though the Old Man had not directly said it, he was grooming Harvath to take over one day.

But what did that mean? It was a question he knew the answer to but had never really thought about.

It meant running the business. Schmoozing politicians. Glad-handing agency heads. Winning contracts.

He’d be trading in fieldwork for paperwork. Covert operations for conference rooms.

He knew plenty of guys who had gone corporate. Men who had traded being Tier One for the Fortune 500. Or who had completely set up their own businesses.

In return, they had received a semblance of stability. Freed from the relentless tempo of being elite operators, they could now have their chance to enjoy the American Dream.

They bought boats and summerhouses. Took long vacations and went on epic hunting and fishing trips. They were living the dream.

But get a couple of drinks into them and they’d tell you that they missed the action. That nothing matched it. That as much as they loved their new careers and being with their wives and families, the old life never stopped calling. It was an itch that just couldn’t be scratched.

There was also the sense of purpose. None of the men Harvath had known had been in it for the money. They were there because they believed in the mission and the men who were fighting alongside them. It was a calling and, as such, extremely difficult to walk away from.

Harvath took another sip of coffee and looked back out the window.

He had never considered that Reed Carlton might pull him from the field before he was ready to leave it behind. It was crazy that it hadn’t crossed his mind before.

When the Old Man was ready to hang it up, he was going to hang it up. It wouldn’t matter where Harvath thought he was more valuable or where he wanted to be. Carlton would have already made up his mind.

He would have thought everything out. He would have anticipated every rebuttal Harvath might raise. He’d have an offer for him and it would be fantastic. And knowing Harvath as well as he did, he’d have an ironclad justification ready as well.

The Old Man would appeal to Harvath’s sense of duty and patriotism. He’d explain why the country needed him to give up fieldwork and helm The Carlton Group. Finally, he would appeal to his sense of loyalty.

None of it would be pretty. And frankly, Harvath had no idea how he might respond. What he did know, was that once the offer had been made, their relationship would have crossed a Rubicon.

There would be no going back to the way things were before. That wasn’t how Carlton operated. He was incredibly stubborn and single-minded when it came to the business and what he thought best served the needs of the country.

You either followed his advice, or he advised you to hit the road. Things were black, or they were white. There was no gray.

But while there was no gray with the Old Man, there was with the Agency. In fact, there was green—and in more ways than one.

Harvath was reminded of his conversation with Helen Cartland in the pub back in Berlin. She had asked him what kind of green badger he was. Was he a private contractor or corporate?

In his time working with the CIA, he had learned about a hybrid type of contractor. Something called SpecTal, a combination of someone who was sometimes a private contractor and sometimes a corporate contractor.

But for that to happen, Carlton would have to want to keep him around. If Harvath said no to moving into a leadership role at the company, he doubted that was going to be an option. The Old Man would cut ties. That was just the way he was.

If he wanted to stay in the field, going the private route might be the answer. He would be giving up a lot by leaving The Carlton Group, but he stood to gain so much in return.

The CIA wouldn’t care if he lived in Boston or Bangladesh. All they would care about is that when they called, he picked up the phone.

Becoming a private contractor for the Agency would allow him to do what he loved to do, and do it from Boston.

He’d have to give up his house. And there was also the chance that the President wouldn’t be happy with his decision, but how much would that matter?

He wasn’t hanging up his cleats. He’d just be using a different locker room. If the President wanted him for something, he could still find him. He just wouldn’t be right down the road.

The more he thought about it, the more the pieces started falling into place. For a moment, he had to stop himself and ask if this was really what he wanted to do. Was he actually going to leave The Carlton Group?

He was tired. His head wasn’t on straight. It was a crazy idea. Certainly not something he should be thinking about in the middle of an operation. Pondering the future wasn’t something he could afford to do right now. He needed to focus on the present.

He turned his mind back to all the questions that had been piling up like a chain-reaction car crash in his brain. He pulled at a thread here, a thread there, trying to unravel what it all meant.

He was on his third cup of coffee and no closer to any answers when the plane began to descend and Harvath looked back out the window.

They were over the water, just south of Sicily. Double-checking the prisoners, he returned to his seat and buckled up.

It felt odd to be returning. His last visit had marked a low and very dark time for him. He had stayed drunk for days and had even taken a shot at the man he was about to see.

Hopefully, he’d already put that behind him. If Harvath had wanted to kill him, he would have. It had been only a warning shot.

Some people, though, had a way of carrying a grudge. Especially those who had been shot at.