Spymaster

by Brad Thor

  The team had already double-checked each other’s gear and then had checked again. Standing at the ramp with their wingsuits, low-vis helmets, night-vision goggles, and oxygen masks, they looked spooky—like four dark superheroes out of some postapocalyptic comic book.

  “Ten seconds!” the jumpmaster yelled.

  They were all assembled near the edge of the ramp now. The wind was practically deafening, and it was much colder than it had been a few feet back. Technically, they were about to jump into Russia.

  Harvath raised his gloved fist and gave everyone a bump. He’d be the last one out in case anything went wrong.

  Ashby would go first, followed by Palmer, then Staelin, and finally Harvath. Had they clumped together, they might have created a significant radar signature. So instead, they were to take different glide paths to the same broad drop zone.

  In their packs, they carried suppressed pistols, radios, individual med kits, a ton of cash, maps, and some compact, very high-tech equipment. President Porter, Bob McGee, and Lydia Ryan had wanted to ensure that they were as self-sufficient as possible.

  “On the green!” the jumpmaster yelled, pointing to the light near the ramp. “On the green!”

  Harvath glanced one last time at the infrared lights on the backs of everyone’s helmets. They were all working. He’d be able to track them all the way down.

  “Five, four, three, two, one!” shouted the jumpmaster as the light turned green. “Go! Go! Go!”

  One by one, the team dove, headfirst, off the ramp at the rear of the aircraft and tumbled through the bitterly cold night sky.

  Quickly righting themselves, they extended their limbs, spread-eagled, and began to glide.

  Harvath, like the other team members, watched the computer strapped to his wrist. It provided a range of important data, including altitude, speed, direction, and distance to target.

  He had jumped with a wingsuit a handful of times before, but had done so in relatively controlled environments without much gear. The added weight they were now all required to carry had been a big source of back and forth with the flight crew, as they tried to decide where and when to green-light the team to jump.

  Sailing through the moonless pitch-black, the only thing Harvath could see through his NVGs were the lights on his team’s helmets as they floated through the darkness ahead of him.

  Per the course they had charted, they anticipated being in Lithuanian airspace for several minutes before they crossed into Kaliningrad’s.

  Looking at his wrist, he did a quick bit of math. There’d be an alarm reminding them when to pop their chutes, but he didn’t want to depend on a computer. That wasn’t how the OSS would have done it.

  Adjusting his trajectory, he continued to glide. There was absolutely no other feeling in the world like it.

  He continued to check his speed, stunned at how fast they were moving. The pilots had said there would be a favorable wind, but this was amazing.

  A minute and a half later, he looked at his wrist and saw they were about to cross into Russian airspace.

  Ahead, he could see each helmet already curving left. They were all precisely following the flight path. According to NATO analysis, there was a gap in Kaliningrad’s radar system. By hitting it one at a time, they could slip through the crack without anyone knowing. Harvath followed their lead and adjusted his course to match.

  The altimeter spun wildly, like a countdown clock on speed. The drop zone was coming up fast.

  They had picked a spot that had “looked good,” but that could have, for all they knew, belonged to some trigger-happy Russian farmer. According to the Lithuanians, it was a rotating livestock pasture that wasn’t currently being used.

  Giving his altitude and location one last check, he flared his wingsuit to help reduce his speed and popped his chute. The large black canopy burst into the air and unfurled above him.

  He grabbed the toggles and steered himself in just as the alarm on his wrist computer vibrated. Below him, he marked the positions, and speeds, of everyone else. All of their chutes appeared to have deployed, and they were expertly navigating the final distance to the ground.

  Just before he reached the grass, he pulled down on the toggles and flared his chute, slowing himself down as he had done with the wingsuit.

  Bending his knees, he touched down and jogged forward to dissipate the energy of his landing.

  It was textbook. Perfect, even. As his canopy collapsed behind him, he did a quick visual check to make sure everyone else had landed safely. They had.

  Wriggling out of his harness, he felt something soft underfoot. Looking down, he saw what it was—cow shit. Fresh cow shit.

  The pasture wasn’t out of rotation, it was in use, and recently so. That was a bad piece of intelligence from the Lithuanians. He prayed it would be the only one.

  CHAPTER 63

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  They met at the Riggsby bar in the Carlyle Hotel at DuPont Circle. Ryan wore an emerald-toned dress that matched her eyes. Kopec wore a black, ill-fitting suit that matched his mood.

  “I’ll have a Manhattan, please,” she said, as the waitress took her order and disappeared.

  Kopec, as was his habit, had arrived before her and had started without her. He had been halfway through his second cocktail when she entered the bar.

  Though it was only a few years old, the Riggsby looked as if it had been around since the 1940s. With its forest green walls, old-school furniture, and keyhole entryway, it was a passage back to a bygone era.

  A plate of sardines sat on the table and Kopec nudged it forward, indicating Ryan should help herself.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she replied.

  “That must be how you stay so skinny.”

  He was maudlin. The booze was probably part of it, but there was something else going on.

  “What do you have for me, Artur?” she asked.

  Removing his phone, he pulled up a series of photographs and slid the phone across the table to her.

  Ryan scrolled through the photos. “Where did you get these?”

  “My contact in Belarus was able to access one of the kits,” he said. Technically, it was his contact’s contact, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “That’s wonderful. Where are the rest of them?”

  “Somewhere near Minsk, we believe.”

  “All of them?”

  The Polish intelligence officer nodded.

  “This is very good news. Who has control of them?” she asked.

  “We don’t know. They’re using a cutout, a middleman.”

  “Then how do we get them back?”

  “You must purchase them.”

  Ryan glared at him. “Purchase them?” she snapped. “The hell we will. Those are property of the United States government. We’re not paying someone to give us back what’s rightfully ours.”

  “You don’t have an alternative.”

  “Like hell I don’t. I’ll send a team in and we’ll take them back ourselves.”

  “A paramilitary team. On a direct-action assignment.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Exactly.”

  Kopec shook his head sadly.

  “I paid you a lot of money to track those kits down, Artur. It wasn’t your job to set up a purchase.” Pausing, she then asked, “Are you trying to rip us off? Because if you are, I promise you, we’re going to have a big problem.”

  “Lydia, please. Of course not,” he protested. “The kits were stolen and now they’re in the hands of another party who wishes to sell them.”

  “I want the identity of the cutout.”

  The Polish intelligence officer threw up his hands. “Why? He’s not going to reveal his source.”

  “You don’t know that. We could buy him off. It’d be cheaper than buying our merchandise back.”

  “And then what? Steal the kits, maybe kill the person or persons who have them?”

  “You don’t need to conc
ern yourself with what happens next.”

  “He’s my source, Lydia. He’d be as good as dead. You don’t understand how things work in Belarus.”

  “To tell you the truth, Artur, I don’t care. I want those kits back, damn it.”

  In the entire time he had known her, he didn’t think he had ever heard her swear before. Granted, the United States had to be losing its collective mind over this issue, but the stress really seemed to be getting to Ryan. It was time to lay his cards on the table.

  “There might be one scenario under which I would be willing to give you my source.”

  Ryan, whose Manhattan had just arrived, was about to take a sip. “Name it,” she said.

  “You must give me Matterhorn.”

  “Jesus Christ, Artur. How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have him. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know where he is. Only Reed Carlton knows. And he’s not exactly in any shape to talk.”

  “Or so you say.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I’d like to see him for myself.”

  “And I explained to you why that wasn’t possible. He has been classified as a risk to National Security. This isn’t like visiting the old folks’ home, having a cup of tea and a sweet chat, then leaving. He is in bad shape and he could say anything.”

  “I’m willing to risk it.”

  Ryan laughed. “You’re willing to risk it. That’s cute. These are American secrets and American national security we’re talking about, not Polish.”

  “Matterhorn is a matter of Polish national security as far as Poland is concerned.”

  A long, cold silence fell over the table. Ryan picked up her cocktail and sipped from it, trying to decide what to say. What Kopec did next, though, stunned her.

  Standing up, he placed a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “When you’re ready to get serious about your upgrade kits, you know how to reach me.”

  “Don’t do this to me, Artur,” she implored. But it was no use. Without so much as good-bye, the Polish intelligence officer turned and left the bar.

  CHAPTER 64

  * * *

  KALININGRAD

  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.

  CHAPTER 65

  * * *

  On the outskirts of Kaliningrad’s capital city, the truck pulled over and the driver opened the rear doors. He handed Harvath an envelope with tickets for the tram and then told his passengers to get lost.

  “Nice guy,” said Staelin, as they watched him close up the trailer, hop back into the cab, and pull away.

  “That nice guy’s father, two uncles, and grandfather were Forest Brothers,” said Harvath, referencing the Baltic partisans who organized a resistance movement and waged guerilla warfare against the Soviet occupation throughout World War II and after.

  “And he comes from great stock,” Staelin added, upgrading his assessment of the man.

  “He’s also our ride out of here,” said Harvath.

  “My respect for him continues to grow.”

  “As it should,” said Harvath, putting his game face on. “Okay, listen up, everybody. We are deep in Indian country and there is no cavalry. We have one job and it is to snatch Tretyakov and get him into Poland. Anything less than that is mission failure. Do you understand me?”

  One by one, they nodded. All of them understo
od.

  “Good. See you at the rally point. Let’s go.”

  With that, they broke into teams and went in separate directions. Ashby and Staelin headed south. Harvath and Palmer headed west.

  “What’s the plan?” the young operative asked, as Harvath checked his map and decided the best route to take.

  “Well,” said Harvath, “at the most basic level, we were hired to kill people and blow things up. But let’s see if we can avoid that this time. We’ve managed to get in without anyone knowing. If we can get the job done and get out the same way, this will have been a major success.”

  Chase pretended to make check marks on an imaginary pad. “So that’s no fun No fun. And no fun.”

  “Funny how you can’t spell ‘paycheck’ without no fun.”

  “Actually—” Chase began, but Harvath interrupted him.

  “Our tram is coming. Put your earbuds in and follow me.”

  Chase did as he was told and they caught the main tram heading into downtown Kaliningrad.

  Wearing earbuds was an operational habit they had gotten into. Not only were they able to talk to each other, but it helped them tune out the locals. As long as it looked as if they were listening to music or chatting on the phone, no one attempted to engage them.

  They rode the tram into downtown and got off near a former Nazi underground bunker that had been turned into a museum. On foot, they headed for Tretyakov’s neighborhood.

  As they walked together, Harvath took the opportunity to train Chase—pointing out CCTV cameras to avoid, places to shake a hypothetical tail, and spots where you could dispose of evidence or hide items and come back to get them later.

  He had spent a lot of time working with Sloane, but not as much with Chase. It felt good to be in the field with him—to see how he operated in a foreign environment, how he reacted to unusual input.

  For the most part, he was fantastic. He knew his stuff and he was incredibly observant. He still, though, got things wrong—and Harvath knew exactly why.

  Like Sloane, he was smart, funny, and incredibly talented. But also like Sloane, he was still green. Despite all his combat deployments, all his time behind a trigger, there was still an immaturity to him. And he wore it like a beacon pinned to his chest.