Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 63

The town of Furat looked like a thousand others Harvath had seen over the course of his career. The houses were square. Many had walled courtyards. They were built of mud brick. Some, usually the two-story homes, were built of concrete block.

The original drone had gone back to refuel. An identical one was now circling high above, providing imagery.

There were four roads into and out of Furat, mimicking the points of a compass. It was an old caravan stop, known for the sweetness of its water, which came from deep, cold wells.

Harvath looked at the overlays from General Proskurov’s computer and compared them to the footage being fed to his phone by the drone. He spotted Baseyev’s house right away. The GRU operative had chosen wisely.

The home was on the edge of the town. It was within walking distance of everything, but secluded enough to be protected if any of the other buildings were targeted in an air strike.

Proskurov had highlighted it on his map. Three old satellite dishes lay faceup, forming a triangle on the roof. Harvath guessed that they had been put there as a marker of some sort. From a Russian fighter jet, spy plane, or satellite, they weren’t difficult to pick out.

Foreseeing the relentless attacks on Aleppo, Raqqa, and Dabiq, ISIS had commandeered part of the town to quietly serve as its new base of operations. That was why the town had developed a reputation for bad things happening and people disappearing. The default position for ISIS when they saw a stranger was that the stranger had to be a spy.

Yusuf had been adamant that if anyone could get them close to Furat, it was Qabbani. And he had been right.

Qabbani’s family had been in the region for generations. They knew every farmer, shepherd, basket weaver, and Quran salesman from here to Aleppo. He had a network of contacts that was second to none.

The man had delivered them to a small property, long abandoned, several kilometers outside of town. Its tiny garden had been swallowed up by sand. The ramshackle, two-room house looked as if it hadn’t had occupants in over a hundred years.

Righting an overturned table, Harvath discovered two scorpions mating. Before he could react, Qabbani had crushed them underfoot.

“Be careful,” he warned. “Where there are two, there are always more.”

Harvath heeded his advice as he took up a position near the window. Monitoring the video feed from the drone, he made notes in a small notebook.

ISIS didn’t want to draw attention to itself, and so kept a low profile. There were no antiaircraft guns, permanent checkpoints, or roving teams of fighters in pickup trucks with .50-caliber machine guns mounted in their beds. That made Harvath’s job a lot more difficult.

ISIS had enemies — lots of them — and its high-ranking leaders weren’t about to let someone roll right up on them.

Spotters would be hidden in houses and among the townspeople up and down the streets. Every set of eyes was a potential threat. Separating good person from bad was a near impossible task.

If Harvath had been honest with himself, the best plan of all would be to fly in two pairs of F-22s and just destroy everything. Turn it all into a smoldering pile of rubble and call it a day.

But, as much as the idea appealed to him, it was dwarfed by his desire to look Sacha Baseyev in the eye. He wanted to see the man’s face when he realized it was all over and he was going to die. Harvath owed that to the CIA team and the embassy staffers in Anbar, to Secretary Devon and his protective detail who were slaughtered in Turkey, and to those killed and wounded at the White House bombing.

Then there was the second thing he wanted — to cause a well-deserved shit storm for the Russians.

Based on the information Sergun had given in his interrogation, Baseyev would be back in the town tonight. Many high-level ISIS members, including its top Russian speakers, planned a meeting to honor him.

If Harvath could confirm where the event was happening, the United States could take action. Then, with Nicholas’s help, they could make it look like the Russians were responsible.

The President, McGee, and Carlton had all told Harvath that they’d let him make the call, but none of them liked it. It was too risky. Just getting to Baseyev would be a major, against-the-odds accomplishment. Remaining in Furat after that, though, was suicide. They wanted Harvath out as soon as possible.

Harvath agreed. He didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary. If they could pull this off, though, the risk would be worth it. Too much had been lost, too many had died, for him not to at least try.

The key was timing all of it. Getting into the town, getting the job done, and getting out.

Looking at a map of the area, Harvath needed to figure out two things. Where could he zero in his rifle? And once it was dark, how were they going to make their approach?

After discussing the first question with Qabbani and Yusuf, Harvath contacted D.C. to ask them to pull the drone back and check out the sand dunes eight kilometers east of their position.

When word came back that it was all clear, Harvath and Thoman grabbed some items to use as targets, hopped in the truck, and headed out.

As they drove, they discussed a multitude of items that could impact their assignment. Harvath explained that not only could things go wrong, they should absolutely expect them to.

He had no idea how prophetic his words would be. After he fired the first round through the PSL rifle, the next round in the magazine failed to feed.

Harvath had had his reservations about it. You didn’t normally see PSLs modified to take a suppressor. It was an intricate custom job and, if not done properly, could result in problems.

But it had been the only suppressed long gun available, and for his plan to work, that’s what he needed. It didn’t have to be the best. All it had to do was look the part and, at the very least, function.

His first instinct was that the bolt hadn’t come all the way back to pick up the next round. But when he examined it, he realized that wasn’t the problem.

Ejecting the magazine, he removed the round that didn’t feed and reinserted the magazine. After charging the weapon, he focused on his target and pressed the trigger.

The weapon fired, but once again, the next round in the magazine failed to chamber. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Harvath muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Thoman asked.

“I’m going to kill your gun dealer, that’s what’s wrong.”

He had taken a risk buying a weapon from someone he didn’t know and without being able to test-fire it. Welcome to war in Syria.

Ejecting the metal magazine, he examined the edges at the top called the feed lips. He was hoping the problem wasn’t with the rifle itself but was limited to the mag. “Do we have any pliers?” he asked.

Thoman walked back to the truck and returned with an adjustable wrench. “This is all I could find.”

Harvath held his hand out like a surgeon and accepted the tool. It took five bends and several more shots to get the magazine feeding properly, but once it did, the gun performed perfectly.

As soon as he had the night-vision scope dialed in, he and Thoman leapt into the pickup and hurried back.

It was late in the day and Harvath still had a lot to do. This was the only chance they were going to get. And while he wasn’t superstitious, he couldn’t help but take the problems with the rifle as a bad sign.

His mind flashed to all of the ISIS videos he had ever seen — how they drowned, burned, and flayed captives to death.

He could feel a sense of apprehension growing inside him. Was this the smartest thing to be doing? Had he thought everything out? Was there a better way? Had he overlooked anything? Had he, God forbid, missed something critical?

Taking a deep breath, he held it for a couple of seconds and let it out. He was about to walk right into the center of ISIS. They were beyond barbaric, beyond evil, and he was beyond outgunned.

What he was feeling was fear. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. No one was immune to it.

Courage, though, wasn’t the absence of fear. It was what you did in spite of it.

The only thing he could do was to put together the best plan possible, faithfully execute that plan, and be ready to improvise if it all went to hell.

As he slammed a metal door down on his doubts and tried to focus his mind, he was left with a final, disturbing thought. This could be the last assignment he ever undertook. Here, in the middle of nowhere, could be where he would die.