Spymaster

CHAPTER 64

After burying their parachutes and wingsuits, Harvath and his team spent the rest of the night in an abandoned barn on an adjacent property. Their weapons loaded and hot, they took turns on watch. Harvath went first.

As everyone else settled in to sleep, he found a spot that allowed him to observe the dirt road outside. Settling into a comfortable position, he reached into his med kit, grabbed several anti-inflammatory pills, and swallowed them down.

HALO jumps were always painful. It didn’t matter how much he tried to slow down by flaring his wingsuit. When the canopy unfurled and the drag kicked in, there was an instant snap that shocked the body. Like a dog who decides to chase a cat and doesn’t know he’s on a tether until he reaches the end of it. It hurt like a son of a bitch.

Outside the barn, Staelin had rigged a perimeter of IR security cameras that would alert them to any approach. The feeds were accessible via a tablet that Harvath was using to review their limited mission intelligence.

From an information perspective, this was an incredibly bare-bones operation. Kuznetsov had told them where Tretyakov lived and worked. He had also provided some information about his routine and potential likes and dislikes. Very little of it was actionable. But what there was, Harvath had decided to act upon.

The GRU colonel was single. He had no known girlfriend, or boyfriend. It was not known if he had any pastimes, any hobbies, or any vulnerabilities such as drinking, prostitutes, drugs, or gambling. For their purposes, he was a black hole.

Harvath had done more with less before, but that didn’t mean he liked it. In a perfect world, you would set up surveillance on the target for weeks, if not months. You would study his every move; learn all of his habits. You would know him better than anyone else. You would know his hopes, his fears, his dreams, and his weaknesses.

And by doing this, you would learn the best and most effective place to hit him. Someplace that was routine in his day. Someplace where he felt safe. Someplace where he felt invisible and could let his guard down.

There was only one place, outside home and work, that Kuznetsov could remember Tretyakov having a fondness for. It wasn’t a bar, a restaurant, or even a specialty tobacconist. It was an island, almost dead center in the middle of the city, accessed by a bridge covered in padlocks.

Kuznetsov had met his GRU superior for a meeting there once. He had remembered Tretyakov remarking that it was within walking distance of his apartment and his office, and that it was where he went when he needed to think.

If only there was a way to force him, to stress him out enough that he would retreat to the island to think, Harvath had reflected.

But a trip to a pretty park somewhere to gather your thoughts was too random. It wasn’t like seeing a mistress or visiting a grave on an anniversary. There was no telling how long they could wait for something like that to happen. They would have to pick another place. And they would have to be creative. Every cautious, well-thought-out, well-reasoned, normal thing you would do in a situation like this was out the window.

Harvath was convinced, though, that if they could avoid the gravitational pull of chaos, if they could stay outside the boundaries of Murphy’s Law, if they could do that just long enough, they might be able to get the job done.

They passed the night without incident. Before sunrise, they were dressed like tourists, with backpacks, maps, and cameras, waiting to get picked up.

They ate a cold breakfast of water and protein bars. When it was time to move, Harvath gave the signal.

Despite the mistaken report on the status of the cow pasture drop zone, Filip Landsbergis of the VSD had provided some valuable assistance.

A quarter of a mile away, a Lithuanian semi truck importing a refrigerated trailer full of fresh fruit and vegetables sat by the side of the road waiting for them.

Its driver, a gruff man immune to pleasantries, told Harvath and his team to hurry up and get in. Russian patrols were random and all over the place. He likened Kaliningrad to a police state. You never knew where or when you’d be forced to deal with the authorities.

They did as he asked and climbed inside. The temperature felt to be in the thirties. He pointed out a stack of blankets and a power strip for charging any devices before he closed and locked the door.

The team broke out their headlamps and helped themselves to fresh apples and oranges as Staelin recharged the IR cameras and tablet.

The ride would be a couple of hours. Grabbing one of the blankets, Harvath found a place he could stretch out and tried to catch up on his sleep. With everything they had in front of them, this would very likely be the last real chance he had.