Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 68

Climbing up onto the roof was one thing. Climbing down was something altogether different.

Harvath was forced to leave most of his gear behind. In addition to weighing him down, it rattled and made too much noise. He couldn’t afford to make a sound.

Slipping over the edge of the roof, he began his descent toward Baseyev’s balcony.

It was much more difficult here than the other side of the house had been, far fewer handhelds and places to put his feet.

The grips were so minimal that there were places where he was digging his fingernails into soft pieces of mortar just to hang on.

He moved not by inches but by millimeters. His hands ached and his body was soon covered with perspiration. If anyone happened by below, he’d be exposed.

Shoving the pain and the pounding of his heart from his consciousness, he kept going. The balcony was only a few more meters away.

He kept running out of places to put his hands, as well as his feet. But each time he did, he took a breath and willed himself to look around. Find something, he told himself. It’s here, you just have to look for it. And each time he did, he found it.

The balcony now was only feet away. It was almost over. He kept moving toward it, ready to let go of the wall.

But no sooner had he reached it than he heard a sound from inside. Baseyev had set an alarm on his phone to wake himself up.

Harvath couldn’t even manage to utter the word fuck. The pain in his hands was excruciating — and it was spreading. He could feel it in his legs, his arms, and his back. His entire body wanted him to give up. It was begging him to.

Each nerve ending was screaming for him to let go and just drop to the ground. The fact that he’d be badly injured in the fall made no difference. All the muscles of his body could focus on was immediate relief. Let go, they screamed. Let go!

Harvath bit down and redoubled his tenuous grip on the wall. He wasn’t going to let go. He forced himself to keep moving toward the balcony.

But what about Baseyev? He strained his ears for any hint of what was going on inside.

The alarm had been silenced. Did that mean he was awake? Or had he activated the snooze feature and rolled over and gone back to sleep?

He was too close to even whisper back to Ryan to give him a SITREP from the drone. And unless the drone was making a pass right at that moment, it wouldn’t be able to provide him the feedback he needed. There was only one way to know for sure.

Pushing himself the last foot and a half, he reached the balcony and eased himself down onto its solid concrete wraparound. Relief immediately coursed through his body.

He didn’t have time, though, to stand there and allow his body to uncramp. He needed to move.

Stepping quietly off the surround and onto the balcony floor, he willed his stiff fingers to obey and drew his Taser. This was it. Baseyev was about to pay for everything that he had done.

Moving toward the large shutters that separated the balcony from the bedroom, he paused. There was no sound. Harvath took that as a good sign. The exhausted man had rolled over and gone back to sleep.

With his Taser tucked in to the ready position at his chest, he spun into Baseyev’s room and prepared to fire.

The bed, though, was empty. In the corner was an AK-47, but no Baseyev. Harvath barely had any time to process what was happening before his target was on top of him.

Baseyev must have awoken and heard a sound from the balcony. With no time to get to his weapon, he must have simply pressed himself up against the wall to wait for his attacker to materialize. When he did, Baseyev sprang, leveraging the element of surprise for all it was worth.

He landed two devastating blows — one under the man’s jaw and one to the side of his head. Harvath saw stars immediately and his already fatigued legs went rubbery on him.

Baseyev didn’t give him a moment or a millimeter to collect himself. He rained the blows down like a gorilla swinging a pair of sledgehammers.

It was pure Systema — the lethal Russian martial art taught to the Spetsnaz and all of the nation’s intelligence operatives.

The elbow and knee strikes came again, and again and again. Harvath’s vision dimmed and he lost control of the Taser. He barely heard it fall and go clattering across the floor.

The blows came so hard and so fast, Harvath couldn’t get himself into a position long enough to reach for his pistol or his knife.

He was getting his ass kicked. There was no other way to phrase it. Baseyev was an amazingly well trained and brutal fighter, relentless in his attack.

If Harvath didn’t do something fast, he was going to lose consciousness. And if he did, it would be game over for him. There was only one thing he could think to do.

Planting his feet, he dropped into a squat and lunged at Baseyev, catching him around the waist and driving him over backward.

They landed hard on the concrete floor and the air raced from Baseyev’s lungs. Harvath showed him no mercy.

Harvath beat him twice as hard as Baseyev had beaten him. He beat Baseyev for every American he had killed. He beat him for every loved one and family member who had been left behind.

He broke ribs and watched Baseyev vomit up blood. He grazed him with a punch across the top of his head so severe it removed a piece of scalp.

And then, on the razor-thin edge of killing the man, he stopped and rolled off him.

Baseyev gasped, trying to fill his body again with oxygen. He coughed repeatedly, aspirating on his own blood. A river of it ran from his torn lip. Some even ran out of his left ear.

Harvath had been opened up in a couple of places across his face, but he looked like a supermodel in comparison.

Struggling to his feet, he retrieved his Taser and then came back over and kicked Baseyev as hard as he could in the ribs.

The blow hit so hard he could actually hear them crack. “That’s from the President of the United States.”

He was tempted to deliver another kick, but he didn’t want to risk puncturing and collapsing one of the man’s lungs. There were still several things he needed from him.

Rolling Baseyev over onto his stomach, Harvath zip-tied his wrists and ankles, placed a piece of duct tape across his mouth, and then forced him to sit upright against the wall.

Harvath felt like he had been hit by a train. Sliding down the wall into a sitting position next to him, Harvath caught his breath and waited for some of his strength to return.

It took everything he had not to kill Baseyev right there and right then. As far as D.C. was concerned, that was a perfectly legitimate option. Harvath, though, wanted more.

Pulling out his phone, he got ready to interrogate him. But before he removed the tape from the man’s mouth, he explained what his options were.

He was offering him a one-time-only deal. If Baseyev agreed, Harvath would honor his end of the bargain.

If he didn’t, Harvath would leave him for ISIS and would make sure they knew he was a traitor.

“So what’s it going to be, Sacha?” he asked, as he yanked the piece of tape off his mouth.

The man turned to the side and spat a glob of blood and saliva onto the floor. Turning his gaze back to Harvath, he replied, “I accept.”