Full Black

by Brad Thor

  Sevan tilted his head to the side and raised his palms. “The fact is that I have a chance to try to make things right and that’s why I’ve asked you here.” Gesturing to Lavrov, he added, “That’s why I’ve asked both of you here.”

  Ralston retook his seat and turned his attention to the overweight man in the dark suit. He didn’t say a word. He simply set his backpack down at his feet, kept one eye on the window, and waited for the man to speak.

  Lavrov looked at Sevan. When the attorney nodded, Lavrov turned his eyes back to Ralston and said clearly and evenly, “I think I know who sent the Spetsnaz soldiers to kill your friend.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Ralston didn’t know Aleksey Lavrov from a hole in the ground. Informants could be notoriously unreliable, especially somebody else’s. They liked settling scores by turning parties against each other. That Marty Sevan vouched for the guy didn’t mean Lavrov was without an alternative agenda. Until he was sure, Ralston knew enough to play his cards close to his vest.

  Ever the exceptional reader of people, Sevan noted Ralston’s reticence and said, “Before we proceed, it would probably be helpful if Aleksey gave you a bit of background on himself.”

  “Yes, that would be helpful,” Ralston replied.

  The attorney gestured to Lavrov, as if he were coaching him for trial, and nodded for him to speak.

  The husky man reached for his cocktail and took a long sip before setting it back on the coaster. After drying his mouth with the back of his meaty hand, he cleared his throat and said, “I work with the FBI’s Los Angeles field office. I am a naturalized American citizen, but Russian by birth. I work in the office’s Russian organized crime task force.”

  Ralston’s eyes flicked to Sevan. What was he getting him into?

  “Don’t worry,” the attorney said. “Aleksey is an informant for the task force. He’s not an agent.”

  “I am one of the FBI’s sources within the Russian community,” Lavrov clarified.

  “And what’s your connection to Mr. Lavrov?” asked Ralston.

  “I’m his attorney,” said Sevan. “I actually arranged his relationship with the FBI’s Los Angeles field office, in exchange for dropping certain charges that had been brought against Aleksey.”

  “And he owed you a favor.”

  “Aleksey is a very smart man who realizes that it pays to have a good lawyer. Right, Aleksey?”

  The heavyset man nodded.

  Ralston looked at the Russian warily. “So what do you have for me, Aleksey?”

  “Mr. Sevan explained to me that you think the men who tried to kill your friend, Mr. Salomon, were Russian. More specifically, Russian Spetsnaz. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  Lavrov rubbed his chin. “Please. I am not being disrespectful, but many American people watch movies and think every Russian is Spetsnaz.”

  Ralston looked at him. “Mr. Sevan did not explain to you who I am, did he?”

  “He told me you work in movies. That you make sure people understand how to shoot guns and drive cars. I assume then that you are a stuntman. Correct?”

  “You’re partially correct,” Ralston replied, glad Sevan had not told the man everything about his past. “I am a technical consultant on films. Before that, I was in the U.S. military. I have worked with Russian Spetsnaz before.”

  “Then you must have been someone very important in the military. Russian Spetsnaz are not easy to kill. They are very difficult to kill. Even regular Russians are not easy to kill, but you killed four Spetsnaz?”

  Ralston didn’t want to get into details with Lavrov. “You will have to take my word for it, Aleksey.”

  “You are sure that these men were not Russian mafia, maybe?”

  “One of the men had a tattoo right here,” he said, pointing under his arm. “It was his blood type, in Cyrillic.”

  “This is Spetsnaz,” Lavrov relented. “You are correct.”

  “So who in Los Angeles would have been able to coordinate a Spetsnaz hit team?”

  The Russian thought about the question for a moment. “You would be looking at someone with experience within the Russian intelligence services. The FSB, or what used to be called KGB. Same people, same mentality, same game plan. Only the name is different. I can think of three men.”

  Three? Ralston thought. He was going to have his work cut out for him. “I’ll need names, addresses, and what kind of security they may have.”

  Lavrov held up his hand. “One of the men has been in Russia visiting family since the beginning of the summer. Another man is very old and lives in a nursing home. I don’t think these are the men you want.”

  “Why not?”

  “Besides one being out of the country and the other needing a nurse to feed him?”

  Ralston knew that the Italian Mafia often ran operations longdistance and that some of their most senior members were also their most dangerous. The line about old age and treachery popped into his mind. “Yes,” he said. “Besides age and proximity, why should I discount those two?”

  “The first man, the one who is on vacation in Russia, he was KGB Ninth Directorate. He operated the Moscow VIP subway. The man in the nursing home was in the Fifth Directorate. He dealt with censorship of writers and filmmakers. I still find it ironic that he ended up retiring in Hollywood.”

  Lavrov raised good points. “Tell me about the third man,” said Ralston.

  “His name is Yaroslav Yatsko. Former Russian FSB and current Russian organized crime figure here in Los Angeles.”

  “What was his position with the FSB?”

  “He was with the First Chief Directorate of the KGB, actually. He specialized in foreign espionage and stayed on through the transition from KGB to FSB. From what I understand, he continued with foreign espionage activities before moving to California.”

  Ralston had to wonder what the hell was wrong with the American government that they let these kinds of people into the United States. “What’s he doing now? What kinds of things is he involved with?”

  Lavrov shrugged. “Extortion, stock fraud, antiquities scams, identity theft, credit card fraud, money laundering, counterfeiting, human trafficking from Mexico, arms dealing, and film piracy. Take your pick.”

  “What about murder for hire?”

  “Violence and murder are the sine quibus non of Russian organized crime,” offered Sevan. “Without those two ingredients, there would be no Russian organized crime.”

  “Yaroslav Yatsko,” said Lavrov, “keeps a very quiet, low profile. He hides behind multiple legitimate businesses in order to justify his income and comfortable lifestyle.”

  “But is he known to carry out murders for hire?” repeated Ralston.

  “Specifically? No. But it is rumored throughout the community that he has facilitated several high-profile assassinations in Mexico. Allegedly, he has carried these attacks out on behalf of warring cartels, politicians, and business leaders.”

  “That’s Mexico. I’m talking about here. What about in the U.S.?”

  Lavrov shook his head.

  “Then I’ll want the address of that nursing home, too. It looks like I’m going to be busy.”

  “That might not be necessary,” replied Sevan.

  “Why not?”

  “Because of the Mexico rumors,” said Lavrov.

  “What about them?”

  “Most of the victims had exceptional security. They had bodyguards, alarm systems, dogs; all of the things you would expect of the wealthy and powerful, especially in a Third World country like Mexico. Supposedly, that is Yaroslav Yatsko’s claim to fame. He can get around anyone’s security.”

  “And how did he do that?”

  “By eschewing local talent and bringing in his own people from Russia,” said Lavrov. “He is known for only using the best. He only hires Spetsnaz.”

  CHAPTER 41

  NORTHERN VIRGINIA

  If his cell phone hadn’t rung, Harvath could have easily slept another severa
l hours. Fumbling for the device on his nightstand, he activated the call and brought the phone to his ear. “Harvath,” he said, looking for his watch to see what time it was.

  “Scot?” asked a woman’s voice on the other end. “It’s Riley. Did I wake you up?”

  “No,” he lied, sitting up in bed and trying to focus. “I’m still trying to beat back the jet lag. What’s up?”

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “For Massachusetts.”

  Harvath knew who she was talking about, but not what. “I don’t understand.”

  “His condition. Remember when I told you the Tasers weren’t designed for what you wanted to do?” she said.

  “But it worked.”

  “It did, but I thought it was just dumb luck, or maybe the hand of God, I don’t know, but I wasn’t ready to believe you could restart someone’s heart with a Taser—no matter how many times you zapped him. Well, we’ve been running tests here and it turns out that our patient has something called WPW or Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome. It has to do with having an extra, abnormal electrical pathway in the heart. Symptoms often don’t appear until people are in their teens or early twenties. It can cause rapid heartbeat and in more serious cases sudden death.”

  “So what’s his prognosis?”

  “We’ve performed a catheter-based procedure known as ablation. It should correct the problem.”

  “That’s great news,” said Harvath, and he meant it. They were overdue. “Does he have any brain damage?”

  “Not so far as we can tell.”

  “When will you be able to restart the interrogations?”

  “Soon,” she replied.

  “How’s Chase?”

  “All things considered, pretty good. The bullet did chip his humerus, though.”

  “Impossible, Chase doesn’t have a humorous bone in his body.”

  “Very funny.”

  Harvath liked flirting with her and could picture her rolling her eyes. “He’s going to live, though, right?”

  “First, this wasn’t a life-threatening injury,” said Riley. “In fact, I think your duct tape field dressing posed more of a risk to him than anything else.”

  “Most doctors think my duct tape bandages are cool.”

  “Those doctors probably had nurses to assist them. Your duct tape idea may be clever, but it’s a pain to remove, especially for the patient.”

  “He’s a big boy, trust me. He tells me all the time. You didn’t hurt him.”

  “You asked about his injury,” she replied, trying to steer the conversation back to where it had been. “There appears to be a little wrist drop due to some radial nerve injury, but if he does the requisite physical therapy, everything should be fine.”

  “What do you mean by wrist drop?”

  Riley took a breath and then said, “He’s a bit limp-wristed.”

  Harvath laughed. “Please tell me that’s how you’ll write it up for his medical file.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Yeah, it is. That file follows you for life.”

  She ignored him. “Anyway, I thought you’d want the update.”

  “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

  “I guess that’s it, then.”

  Harvath was picturing her in his mind and didn’t want to let her go just yet. He liked the sound of her voice. “Who’s going to head up the interrogation once it gets started?” he asked, hoping to extend their conversation a little bit longer.

  “I haven’t seen them yet,” said Riley, “but apparently the Agency flew in a couple of specialists last night. They’re ready to go as soon as the medical team gives the all-clear.”

  “They’re good people. Some of the best. They’ll do a good job.”

  “They couldn’t be any worse,” she said.

  “Than who?” asked Harvath.

  “Chase.”

  “Chase? What are you talking about?” asked Harvath. “He tried to start the interrogation already?”

  “No, but he asked if I had access to ketamine.”

  “Horse tranquilizer?”

  “That’s one of its uses. In humans it’s highly hallucinogenic. Chase showed me a pair of special-effects contact lenses he had with him that could make a person’s eyes look like the devil. He wanted to pump the patient full of ketamine and freak the hell out of him in hopes of getting him to talk.”

  Harvath laughed again. “I guess that’s one way of doing it.”

  “You would actually endorse that kind of thing?”

  “For some backwater Taliban member living in a cave in Waziristan, maybe, but not for this patient. I think Chase was just pulling your leg.”

  “I might be inclined to believe you if he didn’t actually own a pair of those contacts,” replied Riley.

  “He’s young and aggressive. He’ll learn.”

  “In the meantime, I’m not letting him near the ketamine.”

  “Probably a good idea,” said Harvath, who sensed their conversation was winding down.

  “I’ve got to get back. I’ll call you if I learn anything new.”

  “I appreciate it. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

  “Sure thing,” she replied. “Stay safe.”

  “You, too,” he answered and then disconnected the call and set the phone back on his nightstand.

  She didn’t have to call him. She could have had the Old Man or even Chase do it. He was glad that she had contacted him personally.

  Harvath sat there propped up in bed and debated whether he should try to grab some more sleep. Though the quality of what he’d been able to get so far was marginal at best, he’d still been out for ten hours. What he needed now was some exercise.

  Getting out of bed, he got dressed in a pair of shorts and an Atomic Dog T-shirt. A creature of habit, he tucked a loaded Taurus 9mm Slim semiautomatic into a belly band and headed downstairs.

  He bypassed the coffeemaker and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. After hydrating, he pulled on his running shoes and stepped outside. It was a perfect day, sunny and with a light breeze.

  His house was a small, renovated eighteenth-century stone church known as Bishop’s Gate that stood on several acres of land overlooking the Potomac River, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate. During the Revolutionary War, the Anglican reverend of Bishop’s Gate had been an outspoken loyalist who had provided sanctuary and aid to British spies. As a result, the colonial army had attacked the church, inflicting grave damage.

  It lay in ruins until 1882, when the Office of Naval Intelligence, or ONI, was established to seek out and report on the enormous post–Civil War explosion in technological capabilities of other foreign navies. Several covert ONI agent training centers were established up and down the eastern seaboard to instruct Naval attachés and military affairs officers on the collection of intelligence and the finer aspects of espionage.

  Because of its isolated yet prime location not far from Washington, D.C., Bishop’s Gate was secretly rebuilt and became the ONI’s first covert officer training school. As the oldest continuously operating intelligence service in the nation, the ONI eventually outgrew Bishop’s Gate. The stubby yet elegant church with its stone rectory was relegated to “mothball” status.

  The Navy had many such properties in its inventory, but the majority of those suitable for use as dwellings were reserved for high-level defectors and other displaced political personages the United States government found itself responsible for.

  Regardless of a property’s status, if it fell within the U.S. Navy’s portfolio, the U.S. Navy was responsible for maintaining it. With so many properties to look after, maintenance and carrying costs were quite high. This, coupled with the fact that Harvath, a U.S. Navy SEAL, had shown exemplary service to the nation, played a large role in the secretary of the Navy’s agreeing to a special arrangement suggested by the former president of the United States.

  The church building and th
e attached rectory, which had been converted into a nice-sized house, came to more than four thousand square feet of living space. Those structures, along with a garage, an outbuilding, and the extensive grounds of Bishop’s Gate, had been deeded to Harvath in a ninety-nine-year lease. Per the lease he was to pay a token rent of one U.S. dollar per annum. All that was required of him was that he maintain the property in a manner befitting its historic status and that he vacate the premises within twenty-four hours if ever given notice, with or without cause, by the United States Navy.

  While Harvath had gone above and beyond for the president, he had still been stunned to be extended such a generous offer.

  On his first visit, while exploring the rectory attic, he found a beautifully hand-carved piece of wood. Upon it was the motto of the Anglican missionaries. It seemed strangely fitting for the career Harvath had pursued. TRANSIENS ADIUVANOS, it read. I go overseas to give help. At that moment, he had known he was home.

  That was several years ago, and now he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Standing on his front steps, he stretched each of his legs. He had decided on a short run, just up to Mount Vernon and back. Once his muscles were warm, he started his jog.

  Exercise always had a way of clearing his head and making him feel more energized. Today was no exception. He didn’t think about work at all. He thought about the things he needed to get done around his house. He thought about getting out on the Potomac and doing a little sailing. He also thought about what kind of ruse he could run to get Riley Turner to D.C. for a visit.

  A few miles later, at the entrance to Mount Vernon, he turned around, picked up his pace, and ran back. When he returned to the bottom of his driveway, he stopped and walked the rest of the way to the house, allowing his body to cool down. It had been a good workout and the endorphins were racing through his body.

  Passing through the kitchen, he ignored the coffee machine again and headed upstairs for a quick shower. When he was finished, he threw the temperature selector to the coldest setting and forced himself to remain under the ice-cold water for a full thirty seconds. It was better than three shots of espresso.