Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 61

Proskurov’s laptop contained a wealth of information. The encrypted files were a treasure trove. When merged with everything Viktor Sergun had revealed in his interrogations in Malta, an amazing picture had come together.

Intelligence, though, was a tricky business. Dots didn’t always connect — and even when they did, they might not mean what even the brightest minds thought they meant.

Was the information on Proskurov’s laptop solid? Had it been vetted? Or was it a trap? There was a lot to digest.

Ultimately, it was Harvath’s call. The President, as well as Bob McGee and the Old Man, had all said they would respect whatever decision he made.

Harvath reflected on how many people had been killed — how many Americans. The operation posed incredible risks, but the potential reward was too good to pass up.

Outside of the sheer danger he faced, his next biggest problem was manpower.

The Hadids were on the CIA’s payroll. They weren’t crazy about it, but they would accompany him. Not so for the rest of their men. The ones from the saltbox assault were not on anyone’s payroll. Harvath had paid them in cash from the shoulder strap of his camera bag. He was now almost out of money.

That was a problem on multiple levels — not the least being that where they were going, the Hadids had absolutely no contacts. And even if they could network their way in, no one was going to risk their lives to help them without being paid, up front, and in cash.

There was only one person Harvath could think of who might help. Taking out his phone, he had dialed Yusuf.

Late the next morning, they met on the outskirts of the city and Harvath introduced the Hadids. As the three Syrians chatted, he examined the vehicle, a white, four-door Toyota Hilux pickup truck.

So common were Toyotas in ISIS-controlled territory that you would have thought that they owned stock in the company. It would help them move a little more freely. All he needed now was the right weapon.

Forty-five minutes later, in a town northeast of Damascus, Harvath handed over nearly the rest of his cash and his camera. In exchange, he was handed a modified 7.62mm Romanian PSL semiautomatic rifle complete with a suppressor that had probably been stolen from the Iraqi Security Forces.

It came with an LPS 4X6+ TIP2 telescopic sight, a Russian NSPUM night scope, and a half-empty box of ammunition.

When Harvath demanded that a carrying case be included in the deal, the old, gnarled rebel arms dealer handed him a black plastic garbage bag. Welcome to war in Syria.

With the rifle purchased, Yusuf drove them north. Mathan sat next to him, while Thoman sat in back with Harvath.

They were headed deep into ISIS territory and the only way for Harvath to make the journey was in disguise.

He wore black gloves and a pitch-black burka. Mathan told him he looked beautiful. Thoman told him he thought the burka made his ass look big.

Harvath told them that if they didn’t shut up, he was going to shoot them both. Yusuf choked backed a laugh, lit another cigarette, and kept driving.

Once they were out of regime-controlled territory, they encountered multiple ISIS checkpoints.

Ever the accomplished smuggler, Yusuf handled them beautifully. Not a single penny changed hands.

He had brought with him his medical records and other important papers. He actually played the cancer card.

He told them he was returning home, to his village near Raqqa, to be with the rest of his family. There was nothing else the hospital in Damascus could do for him. He wanted to die in his own bed, in the house he had grown up in.

None of the ISIS fighters knew how to react. Plenty of people had begged, cajoled, and threatened in order to get out alive. They had never seen anyone, much less such a good, pious Muslim, roll up and politely ask permission to enter their territory in order to die.

It was amazing. And it worked at each of the checkpoints. Not once were they searched. Not once were they asked to get out of their vehicle.

Had they been, Harvath was the most heavily armed. It was astounding how much could be hidden beneath a burka. Then there was the drone shadowing them high overhead.

They had taken the long way. Not by choice but by necessity. By heading for the open desert, they were able to avoid many of the joint Syrian-Russian air patrols. This allowed them to pick up and maintain U.S. drone coverage sooner.

Flying at fifteen thousand feet was a General Atomics Aeronautical Systems MQ-9 Reaper carrying two AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-ground missiles and two AIM-92 Stinger air-to-air missiles in case of any contact with hostile, enemy aircraft.

The last thing Harvath wanted to do was waste the Hellfires on an ISIS checkpoint. But all the same, it was nice to know they were there, just in case they needed them.

At Tadmur, near the ancient ruins of Palmyra, they stopped, but only Yusuf got out. He purchased food and more bottled water.

Returning with it to the truck, they ate en route to al-Sukhnah, where they topped off with gas and continued on to Dayr az Zawr.

The evidence of a long-drawn-out civil war and insurgency were all around them.

Bombed-out dwellings had been reinhabited by refugees with nowhere else to go. Those fortunate enough reroofed with corrugated metal. The less fortunate used plastic tarps. The completely unfortunate used reeds, pieces of cardboard, and anything else they could scavenge.

The shells of charred, burned-out vehicles littered the shoulders of the road in both directions. As they drove, they were gripped with the quiet fear of possible IEDs, or of being targeted by a regime-aligned fighter.

The road was so badly damaged that had they not had a 4X4, they wouldn’t have made it. Time after time, they were forced to go off-road and traverse long stretches of rock and sand.

Halfway to Raqqa, in the fertile corridor of the Euphrates River, south of where it flows from the Lake Assad reservoir, they stopped.

Just outside al-Kasarah was a small farm where a once-prosperous family grew dates and figs. What was left of the family now struggled just to stay alive.

ISIS had long ago confiscated all of their livestock — their goats, their chickens, even a cow. What ISIS didn’t take, the regime soldiers helped themselves to when they passed through. It was like being subjected to wave after wave of locusts.

Even so, the patriarch had refused to leave his land. He was too proud. His family had farmed here for generations. Conflicts had come and gone. Insha’Allah, they would persevere.

When the pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of his home, he kept his wife and children hidden inside. The ISIS fighters and the regime soldiers were equally cruel and depraved. His family had already suffered too much at their hands.

Stepping outside, the man put his hand over his eyes, to shield them from the sun. His face was creased and weatherbeaten from a life spent out-of-doors. He looked much older than he really was. Squinting, he tried to make out who was in the vehicle.

A white Toyota could be anyone, but it was probably ISIS. They had increased taxes again. No one had anything left to give. Everyone he knew had been bled dry. ISIS didn’t care.

The farmer’s pulse began to quicken. If he didn’t pay, he would be taken away. They would make an example out of him. His public torture — or perhaps even his death — would be used to frighten his kinsmen into paying up.

The thought of not ever seeing his wife or children again gripped his heart. He wished he had hugged them one last time before stepping outside. But how could he have known?

Straightening his crooked spine, Riad Qabbani prepared himself for the worst.