by Brad Thor
“Time to move,” Harvath ordered.
Mick handed him the soldier’s AK-47 and kept the one with the duct-taped double magazine. “You go,” he shouted. “I’ll lay down suppression.”
Harvath flashed him the thumbs-up and got Decker moving as fast as he could back to the road.
Five meters before the path ended, he knocked her to the ground and covered her body with his.
The booming of a heavy, crew-served weapon was discernable even above the AK fire happening behind them. It sounded like a .50-caliber machine gun, and it was coming from out on the road.
At first, Harvath thought that the rebels had called in the weapon to shoot at him. Then he heard Ash and the Brute Squad over the radio report that they were pinned down and taking serious fire from it.
Rolling off of Decker, he held the AK-47 up and asked, “Do you know how to use this?”
She stared blankly at him for a moment before nodding.
“Good.” He helped her sit up, her back against a tree, facing the direction from which they had just come. “If you see anyone other than Mick come down that trail, you shoot them. Do you understand?”
When she nodded again, he double-checked to make sure a round was chambered, handed the weapon to her, and took off for the road.
The shooting from the fifty cal was coming in short bursts with long pauses in between. It sounded like the gunner was trying to conserve ammo, or was having some sort of trouble. Whether it was a mechanical issue, or he couldn’t pinpoint his targets, Harvath didn’t care. He planned on using the pauses to his advantage.
At the end of the path, he looked out toward the road and saw it—an improvised fighting vehicle, more commonly referred to as a “technical.” This one was a shitty, camouflage-green pickup truck with a .50-caliber mounted in the bed and spare fuel cans on the tailgate. Two other rebels stood in back with the gunner and there were two more in the cab. They were parked in about the same spot LC1 had been when the rebels had originally stopped them.
The gunner let loose with another barrage of fire and Harvath could immediately see why they were stationary and not advancing on the Land Cruisers.
At this range, their weapon was not only highly accurate and deadly, but it put them outside the reach of anything Ash and his men could unleash back in their direction. It was a very one-sided fight. Harvath intended to change that.
Crouching down, he made ready. As soon as they began firing again, he sprang and ran toward the road.
There were few things in life where “close enough” could be deemed a success. One was horseshoes. Another was hand grenades. Pulling the pin, Harvath sent his in a high, soaring arc. He would have been happy to have had it land anywhere near the truck. This one, though, was perfect and landed right in the bed.
It landed with a clank and then failed to detonate. This time, Harvath didn’t just think the word that rhymed with truck, he said it.
All three rebels standing in the bed turned in unison, two of them with AK-47s in their hands. The first thing they noticed was Harvath standing in the middle of the road. They then looked down at their feet and saw the grenade. That was when it finally detonated.
The entire truck, along with its rebel occupants and cases of ammunition, exploded in a massive fireball.
Pieces and parts were sent in every direction. Before some of them had even landed, Harvath could hear Ash and the Brute Squad cheering over the radio.
As the rain sizzled on the flaming wreckage, Harvath ran back into the jungle for Decker. Mick was already there with her. Only three remaining rebels had come down the path, and he had killed them.
He offered to accompany Harvath back to the encampment to see if there were any more, but Harvath waved him off. They had killed everyone who had seen the truck and the name of the organization. There was no point in pushing their luck any further. The best course of action would be to put distance between them and what had happened. Lots of it.
Helping Decker to her feet, Harvath slung the AK over his shoulder and walked with her back to the road. Mick followed, keeping an eye on their six, just to make sure no one snuck up on them from behind.
When the time was right, Harvath was going to have it out with Decker. But right now, he just wanted to get in the Land Cruiser and get going. They were all exhausted and soaked to the bone. He would have given a month’s salary for a hot shower, a few bottles of beer, and a bed.
But those modest luxuries were still hours away. And hours could feel like a lifetime in a place like Congo, especially when the most dangerous part of the assignment was still in front of them.
CHAPTER 8
* * *
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
Pierre Damien sat on the terrace of his luxury Quai du Mont-Blanc apartment and took in the view. The lake was particularly beautiful at this time of year. In a matter of moments, the sky could shift from sapphire blue to steel gray. Where the lake emptied into the Rhône, one of the city’s most famous landmarks, the Jet d’Eau blasted a massive column of water nearly five hundred feet into the air. It was forceful, phallic. It represented the virility he felt, even in his sixties.
Life had been good to him. The world had been good to him. And he intended to return the favor.
Swathed in a silk Gucci bathrobe and leather slippers, he sipped espresso as he pondered which of the five newspapers laid out on the delicate table to pick up first. They can wait, he decided. There was something about this morning that he couldn’t put his finger on. Something he wanted to savor just a little bit longer.
Closing his eyes, he felt the cool wind that was moving in over the lake. He heard the traffic down below, smelled the faint hint of a cigarette from some unseen neighbor on some unseen terrace who had stepped outside to partake in a smoke.
The odor offended him. Not simply because of its pungency, but because of the intrusion it represented. He despised smoking. It was a filthy, selfish habit that intruded, uninvited, into the lives of everyone else. Smokers tossed their discarded butts onto sidewalks and into streets with impunity as if society had bestowed upon them some special dispensation that elevated them to a unique class allowed to litter at will. Disgusting.
He opened his eyes, prepared to be in one of his moods, and was stopped cold by the vision standing at the open French doors onto the terrace. “You cannot come out here like that,” he said with a grin.
The young woman wrapped the sheet tighter around her naked body. “Why not?”
“Neighbors, board members, paparazzi with long lenses.”
“Then you come back inside,” she replied, returning his grin with one of her own.
“I’ll need another espresso.”
Ignoring his warning, she stepped fully out onto the terrace and crossed over to him.
He was a handsome man. Toned, with intelligent eyes and impeccable taste. She had slept with men a third of his age that didn’t have his stamina. Lacing her fingers into his thick, gray hair, she bent forward and pressed her lips against his. She lingered, her kiss communicating her invitation.
“I can’t,” he said. “Put on a robe and join me. Jeffery will serve us breakfast out here.”
“I don’t want breakfast,” she said, smiling. “I want you.”
He smiled back. “I have to leave in a half hour. Ring Jeffery. Eat breakfast with me.”
She had always felt uncomfortable around Jeffery, but feigning a pout, she disentangled herself from Pierre and went inside to do as he had asked.
As she walked away, Damien watched her. The sway of her hips. The curve of her body. The spill of long chestnut hair over the impossibly white sheet. She was a stunning woman. Had he not been the one to pursue her, he might have even said she was too good to be true. Yes, life had been incredibly good to him.
She returned wearing a robe, her allure only intensified by the déco
lletage it revealed. For a moment, he was tempted to cancel his morning and return to bed with her. Then Jeffery materialized with their breakfast and reality once again asserted itself.
He scanned the papers, nibbled on a bit of toast and a soft-boiled egg before kissing her on the forehead and heading inside to get dressed. He knew that if he had allowed their lips to meet again, he would have been powerless to break away from her.
When he stepped out of the lobby, his black Mercedes sedan was waiting. His security team divided between it and a follow car. Mornings in Geneva were always the same.
As the vehicles pulled away, she leaned against the cold iron railing and watched. When the motorcade reached the next block, her phone chimed. Without even looking at the message, she knew who it was from.
Glancing at the other buildings, she tried to imagine where he was. She hadn’t asked. Not that he would have told her. That wasn’t how the spy game worked. Everything was kept compartmentalized—like bulkheads on a ship.
She pulled the phone from her robe pocket. He wanted to see her. Now, before she went to work. He followed up the first text with an address. She knew it. It was on the way to her office. They had met there before.
Deleting both messages, she returned inside and took a shower. She chose her clothes carefully as she toweled off. Bentzi liked blue.
Leaving the apartment, she conducted a surveillance detection route, or SDR, just as she had been trained. She took her time and made sure no one was following her.
She had made a daily habit of varying her route to work. It didn’t matter if she was leaving from Pierre’s, which was more and more the case, or from her little apartment near the University in the Plainpalais neighborhood. If anyone ever desired to set an ambush for her, they would have been hard-pressed to pick the right spot.
The tram would have been the quickest way to her rendezvous, but instead she had decided to walk. She was forestalling the inevitable.
The Café de la Gare was a 1900s style Parisian brasserie in the diminutive Hotel Montbrillant. It was located on a quiet street corner overlooking the rear entrance of the train station.
Sitting in the back of the café, beneath its stained glass ceiling, pretending to read a newspaper as he watched patrons come and go was her handler, Ben Zion “Bentzi” Mordechai.
Mordechai was a completely unremarkable man. Not tall, not short, not handsome, not unattractive. He just was. That was his gift. That, and an amazingly cunning mind.
His only memorable feature, if it could be considered such, was his hands. He had been captured once and tortured, each of his fingers broken. His hands were slightly deformed. If the weather was just so, and he was run-down or dehydrated, his fingers would twist in a painful knot resembling the roots of a gnarled tree. Today, thankfully, was not one of those days.
Setting his newspaper down on the table, he smiled and rose as she approached. “Lenka,” he said, using her nickname as he kissed her on both cheeks. “Did you wear blue for me?”
“No,” she lied. “It was the only clean dress I had left at Pierre’s.”
He knew her too well. She was lying to him, but he kept his smile and let it go. Calling the waiter over, he motioned for her to sit and they ordered. She only wanted coffee. He ordered traditional Swiss muesli and a carafe of still water.
“No problems getting here?” he asked once the waiter had departed.
“None,” she replied. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
She knew he had been, but again, he let it go. “You know why I asked to see you.”
“Because you missed me,” she said, playfully grabbing his forearm, “and you wanted to see me.”
“Stop it,” Mordechai replied as he removed her hand. “I’ve actually seen too much of you lately.”
He was disappointed in her and the rebuke stung.
“The problem, Helena,” he continued, addressing her by her first name, “is that I haven’t heard anything from you.”
“I’m this close,” she stated, holding up her thumb and forefinger. “I just need more time.”
“Your time is up. We’re recalling you to Tel Aviv.”
The young woman was stunned. “Recalling me?” she repeated. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do I not look serious?”
“Are you jealous, Bentzi? Is that what this is all about?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“This is not a game, Helena,” he snapped.
“Who says it is?”
“Keeping me waiting, the blue dress, the flirtatious hand on my arm. I know you.”
She began to wilt under his harsh gaze. “You don’t know anything,” she replied, sitting back in her chair, trying to create some distance.
“I found you. I trained you. I know you.”
“My God, you are jealous. How is that possible? You sent me to Pierre. You told me to do whatever I had to do. We both know what that was code for.”
“It doesn’t change the facts. You have had more than enough time. We’re pulling you.”
“Now I know you’re lying to me. You’re not going to scrap this operation. It’s too important.”
“I didn’t say we were scrapping the operation,” Mordechai replied, once the waiter had set their order down and walked away. “I said we’re pulling you.”
“And then what? The next operative you put in, you think she’ll somehow magically have more luck?”
The Israeli took a deep breath and nodded. “If she doesn’t fall in love with her mark, then yes.”
The accusation cut her to the quick and she couldn’t let it go unanswered. “That is outrageous.”
“Is it?” Mordechai asked as he set a tablet on the table and encouraged her to swipe through the photographs.
Of course they had been following her. What was surprising was that she had been under surveillance even when she wasn’t with Pierre.
“All these prove that I have done everything you asked.”
“If you had done everything,” he said, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Damn it, Bentzi, this isn’t fair.”
“We don’t do fair. Is it fair that the Arabs have oil and we have rock? Is it fair that we are the only nation on the face of the earth that has to fight, and win, every single day just in order to survive? Is any of that fair?”
“Are you questioning my dedication to Israel now?”
Mordechai cut her off. “Don’t toy with me, Helena. You and I both know where your loyalty lies. I have never had a problem with that. So long as you followed orders.”
“Which is exactly what I am doing now,” she insisted.
“It’s out of my hands.”
“Please, Bentzi. I have never let you down before.”
“That’s why this is so difficult.”
“But it doesn’t have to be. Don’t you see?”
Mordechai studied her. “I’m not sure what I see.”
“Oy. Now with the guilt?”
He normally found her use of Yiddish amusing. There were times she could come off as just as Jewish as anyone at the Mossad, but that was the chameleon in her. It was an act, just as this was.
“I’ll double my efforts. I can do this. Trust me. I’ll work even harder.”
“Go back to your apartment,” he told her. “Call in sick. Nothing too specific. If Damien contacts you, tell him you’re having menstrual issues.”
She made a face. “That’s not very alluring.”
“Exactly.”
“I still think—”
Mordechai held up his hand, silencing her. “You go back to your apartment and you stay away from Pierre Damien. You don’t call him. You don’t go over to his place. You don’t so much as bump into him in the street. Those are your or
ders. Do you understand?”
Helena didn’t respond.
Mordechai repeated himself.
Finally, she nodded.
“Good. I will contact you as soon as we have your extraction figured out,” he said, sliding his tablet into his bag. He then removed a couple of notes from his pocket, stood, and placed them on the table.
“You’re not going to eat?” she asked.
“I’ll be in touch,” Mordechai replied as he turned and walked out of the café.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
There had been a hint of something in her voice. Was it melancholy? Ben Mordechai wasn’t sure and tried to sort it out as he walked.
Helena had never been what anyone would consider “stable.” While she hid her problems well, she was an emotional and psychological basket case. Had Mordechai gone through what she had suffered, he probably would have been too.
Hers was but one story among thousands in Eastern Europe. Young girls who had been tricked into the sex trade. Rings of professional traffickers lured them away from their villages. They were promised jobs as nannies with nice families in England or France. While they waited in a neighboring country for their alleged visas to be processed, they were raped, beaten, and hooked on drugs.
Their passports were withheld from them, and they were told horror stories about what would happen to their families back home if they went to the authorities. There were always families back home. The traffickers rarely picked the girls unless they had a substantial piece of leverage they could use on them.
Once broken, the girls were shipped to countries around the world. Helena wound up in Israel.
It was a national stain few Israelis would dare admit. The record, though, spoke for itself. When it got too bad to be ignored, the government would take action, but soon enough its blind eye would return.
Helena was held in the southern West Bank settlement of Kiryat Arba. There she and the other girls were forced to perform sex acts with twelve to fifteen men a day. Some were Jews. Some were Palestinians. Many were businessmen from Tel Aviv whom her pimps had inveigled.