Foreign Agent: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  Towering above the village was a mountain known as the Hoher Göll. Along its rocky sweep, Adolf Hitler had built his expensive vacation residence, the Berghof.

  The village itself was a beautiful symphony of pastel-colored buildings, sloped cobblestone streets, and pitched rooftops. Here and there, hand-painted murals depicted traditional Bavarian life. Centuries-old church steeples soared skyward.

  The Aga Khan, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, and Neville Chamberlain had all passed through Berchtesgaden to visit Hitler. Mussolini, Goering, and Goebbels had come too. Now Mikhail Malevsky was calling the village home.

  It was hard to imagine that a place of such beauty could play host to such evil. Harvath, though, knew better.

  He knew that evil could exist anywhere. And that evil was attracted to beauty. It was like a magnet and he had always wondered why.

  He guessed it was because evil was incapable of creating anything. It only destroyed. And beauty, being the ultimate creation, was prized and desired by evil above everything but power.

  Beauty was a prize, a pet—an illusion, meant to fool the rest of the world into believing evil was something else. It was why truly evil men craved it. It was an addiction that radiated from the very center of their dark souls. Don’t look at me, look at this. Now look back at me. See the beauty I am capable of?

  Art collections, wives, mistresses, cars, homes, golden guns—even diamond-encrusted motorcycles—evil always wanted more, bigger, brighter, better. It was a self-perpetuating cycle, a need that could never be truly fulfilled. Harvath had seen it over and over again. There was only one, terrifying exception—jihadism.

  Islamic fundamentalists rejected beauty. Women were to be kept covered. Depictions of the human form were forbidden. Ornamentation and ostentation also forbidden. Theirs was a monastic fanaticism.

  And while their acts of savagery were unquestionably evil, within their own faith, these were seen as pious tributes to God. Their warriors were practicing the truest, most basic form of Islam. It was the Islam that their prophet, considered the perfect man, had taught them. It was the Islam laid out clearly in the Quran. They were not perverting their religion—they were purifying it.

  The jihadists believed themselves to be true keepers of the Islamic faith. Their time on this earth was fleeting. Everything they did was in service of their god. How they dressed, how they ate, how they bathed, how they prayed—every action, no matter how small, was a step on the stairway to Paradise. That was where their reward lay.

  The greater their acts in honor of Islam were here on earth, the greater their chances of reaching Paradise.

  They were the worst enemy civilization had ever faced. And in its history, civilization had never been weaker.

  The Western world had withdrawn, gone soft and cold. There were very few left to protect it. Fewer still who were willing to risk political careers over hard, consequence-ridden choices.

  America’s President, though, was willing to take the risk. He didn’t have a choice. The survival of the United States depended on it.

  Green-lighting the operation on Malevsky was the right decision. A bloody trail of American bodies, including the U.S. Secretary of Defense, might have started with ISIS, but it didn’t end there. It kept going, right to the Russians’ doorstep. He had no idea why, but he intended to find out. He also intended to end it. Right here, right now.

  Harvath checked his GPS and continued on. He only wanted a quick look at the house. The sooner he got to his destination and emptied the trunk, the better he was going to feel.

  CHAPTER 21

  The old farm was fifteen kilometers outside the village. Harvath pulled around behind the faded barn and parked. It felt good to get out and stretch his legs.

  The location couldn’t have been better. Tucked back into the mountain, it was surrounded on three sides by sheer rock walls. The meadow sloped down, away from the house, and provided a clear view of the road. There were no neighbors.

  Looking inside the barn, he saw a black 7 Series BMW. A pile of home improvement supplies was stacked next to it. He didn’t see the owner and so struck off for the house.

  It was a two-story chalet with flower boxes. Its massive roof overhung a long balcony on the second floor. The back door was unlocked. Harvath let himself in.

  A large pair of boots sat on the tile floor. A leather jacket hung from a wooden peg. The walls were covered in rough-hewn planks. Low beams lined the ceiling. From deeper inside came the smell and crackle of a fire in a fireplace.

  Harvath removed his smartphone. He wanted to handle the confirmation first.

  Moving forward, he peered into each room as he passed. Good habits were good habits, regardless of the situation.

  It was in the living area that he found the BMW’s owner—an enormous, six-foot-four grizzly bear of a man. He was seated at a table near the fire. In front of him were a laptop, two Beretta pistols, and a large bottle of beer.

  Harvath typed CONFIRMED and hit Send on his phone.

  Moments later the man’s computer chimed. “I like that,” he said over his shoulder. “Do it again.”

  “Half now. Half when the job’s over,” Harvath replied. “Is there anything to eat?”

  “Kitchen,” the man grunted.

  The fridge was stocked with meat, lots of it. There were also several dozen eggs, bottled water, and more beer. On the counter were bags of nuts and what looked like packages of German beef jerky.

  Harvath prepared a plate, opened a bottle of beer, and returned to the living room.

  The giant at the table stood to greet him. He had a gray beard now. His hair was salt-and-pepper, but still cut short. “You’ve gotten smaller,” he said.

  Harvath pointed at the man’s stomach and joked, “You too.”

  “No carbs. No sugar. No fun,” he replied. Then, looking at his beer added, “Okay, maybe a little fun.”

  Harvath smiled and joined him at the table. No sooner had he set his plate down than the man wrapped his huge arms around him. “You look good,” he said. “Older, but still good.”

  The bear’s name was Herman Toffle. He had been a member of Germany’s renowned counterterrorism unit, GSG 9. They had met in a cross-training exercise back when Harvath was with the SEALs. Herman had an irreverent sense of humor, and they had become friends almost instantly.

  “How’s Diana?” Harvath asked once Herman had released him from the vise.

  “She’s good. She sends her love.”

  “Tell her I said thank you for setting all of this up.”

  Herman waved it off. “No problem. It belongs to some girlfriend of hers from Munich. She and her husband and kids come down a couple of times in the winter to ski. Maybe once or twice in the summer to swim in the Königssee. That’s it. The rest of the time, they rent it out to vacationers.”

  “Hopefully, the fee will cover it.”

  The man laughed. “It will more than cover it.”

  Now that he had gone into the contracting world, Harvath had access to a substantial discretionary account. Herman was a professional. He should be paid. Not only did he warrant a premium for making himself available at the last minute, but he also deserved a little extra for all of the times in the past he had helped out and had received zero compensation in return.

  He was a good friend. And now that Harvath was in a position to pay him back, it was the very least he could do.

  After being shot and left with a permanent limp, Herman had been forced out of GSG 9. He went to work for a German arms manufacturer and did very well, parlaying his money into several successful ventures—including a private security company.

  With the success of his businesses, he and his wife, Diana, were able to bounce back and forth between a luxury apartment in Munich and an impressive home in Berlin.

  It had been years since Harvath had s
een him, and in a true testament to their friendship, they picked right up where they had left off.

  Herman asked about Harvath’s good friend and former boss, Gary Lawlor. Harvath asked about Max and Sebastian—two commandos Herman had enlisted to assist them on a previous assignment.

  Soon, though, the conversation turned to Harvath’s current assignment. “I saw the gear in the barn. Was that everything on the list?” he asked.

  “I had to improvise a little,” said Herman. “I think we’ll be okay.”

  Harvath trusted him. “Where do you want to put our guest?”

  “If we leave him in the barn, he’s going to freeze to death.”

  “I might be okay with that.”

  Herman shrugged and took a long pull from his beer. This was Harvath’s operation, not his. He’d do what he was told.

  “We’re going to need surveillance,” Harvath continued. “Langley is having a satellite retasked, but I want to get some actual eyes on.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “The ideal situation would be to pose as a potential buyer and actually get a tour of the property.”

  Herman took another sip of beer before responding. “A home that expensive, though, is only going to be opened to pre-approved buyers. You’d not only need financial statements, but a relationship with an established realtor.”

  He was right, and Harvath had already thought of that. “There might be a way around that.”

  “Such as?”

  “The CIA has assets everywhere, but especially inside the United States.”

  Herman looked at him. “I thought that was illegal.”

  “Technically, they can’t run operations in the U.S. But they can, and they do, recruit Americans to help with operations outside the country.”

  “So how does that help us?”

  “There’s a real estate firm in Beverly Hills. They cater to an exclusive clientele and specialize in high-end estates. The CIA has used them before.”

  “And they’ll vouch for you as the buyer?”

  Harvath shook his head. “Not as the buyer. As someone who works for the buyer. Someone passing through who thinks the home may be perfect for his employer. They’ll pitch it that I’d like to get in to see it before I fly home.”

  “When are you flying home?”

  “Let’s say, tomorrow. If they’re serious about selling, I’ll get a showing.”

  “And if they aren’t?” Herman asked.

  “We go to Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  Harvath smiled. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “Terrific.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Sure we will,” Herman replied as he stood to get some food for himself. “I think my fee just went up.”

  “In that case,” said Harvath as he tossed him his car keys, “you get to empty the trunk.”

  “Where’d you park?”

  “Behind the barn.”

  “I promised Diana we wouldn’t do anything illegal.”

  That made Harvath laugh. “You shouldn’t lie to your wife,” he said as he dug into his plate. “It’s bad for your marriage.”

  Herman went for his boots and jacket. “Don’t let the fire die. And don’t go anywhere. When I get back I want you, the bachelor, to tell me all about how marriage works.”

  Harvath flipped his friend the finger.

  A few seconds later, he heard Herman open the door to go out to the barn and shouted, “He’s pretty heavy. So remember to lift with your legs!”

  CHAPTER 22

  The trunk of Harvath’s car smelled terrible. He didn’t know if Malevsky employed dogs, but just in case, he thought it better to drive Herman’s BMW. He didn’t need dogs going bonkers over his car. The more at ease everyone was, the better it would all go.

  The owner of the real estate company in Beverly Hills had done an excellent job. She had worked with enough high-net-worth individuals to know exactly what to say, and what not to say.

  An appointment had been set and Harvath had been told to drive up to the gate and ring the call box. Someone would be available to take him on a tour. Whether or not that someone would be Malevsky was yet to be seen.

  He left his Glock with Herman, tossed his suitcase on the backseat, and drove back into Berchtesgaden. If they patted him down, or went through his bag—both of which he expected—he needed to fully look the part. If they were even the least bit suspicious of him, things were going to get real ugly, real fast.

  The one thing that Harvath had going for him, the only thing, in fact, was that Malevsky was a businessman. The Russian mob had a very expensive property it needed to unload. Once it was sold, millions of clean dollars would be flowing back to their organization. Harvath only needed to be believed for the length of the showing. What happened after that wasn’t his problem.

  Rolling to a stop next to the call box, he depressed its silver button.

  “Da?” a voice replied, but then corrected itself with the proper German. “Ja?”

  “Hi,” Harvath replied. “It’s Tommy Molteni. I’m here for a property showing?”

  The voice didn’t welcome him or give him directions on where to park. There was a short tone, like the sound of a telephone key being pressed, and the gates began to swing inward.

  Harvath waited for them to open fully and then followed the driveway up to the house.

  The grounds were meticulously maintained. He noticed the placement of landscape lighting, as well as how many trees there were. From a security standpoint, there were a ton of things Harvath would have done differently. But from an investment standpoint, he could understand why Malevsky and the money-laundering operation might not have wanted to make the changes. Mess with the natural look and feel of the property too much by tearing down trees and other such things, and it might be harder to sell.

  At the top of the drive, it opened onto a large motor court. Harvath spotted two Porsche Cayennes, a classic Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit, and an Audi R8 convertible. There was no telling what else lay behind the closed garage doors. He wondered if the cars were part of the money laundering as well.

  He had expected to see muscle, and in that department, Malevsky didn’t disappoint. But instead of slabs of beef in bad suits straight out of Moscow’s version of central casting, the men were fit and well tailored. Were they Spetsnaz—former Russian Special Forces? They certainly had the look. They also had the vibe.

  Predators could smell other predators from a mile away. Harvath made sure not to hold eye contact. Pasting a smile on his face, he waved and gestured for them to direct him where to park.

  The men seemed more annoyed by his presence than anything else. They waved him over to the side and had him turn around so his vehicle was facing the correct direction to leave. Before he even had it in Park, one of the men was at his window, motioning him to lower it.

  “Identification, please,” the man said, once the window was down.

  Harvath patted his pockets. “Like business cards? Sorry. I don’t have any. The realtor from Beverly Hills should have told you that I—”

  “Passport,” the man requested, cutting him off.

  He was polite, but firm. A professional. Harvath was getting the full-on Spetsnaz feeling from him. “Sure,” Harvath replied turning to reach for his bag in the backseat. “I’ve got my passport right back here.”

  “Stop,” the man said.

  Harvath did as he asked.

  The man gave an order to his colleague and then asked Harvath to shut off the engine and step out of the car.

  The other guard removed Harvath’s bag from the car and brought it around to him.

  “Passport, please,” the first man repeated.

  Harvath zipped open the front compartment of his suitcase, pulled out t
he passport the CIA had issued him, and handed it over.

  The Russian studied it, looking back and forth from Harvath to the picture and information contained inside. Finally, he handed it back.

  Harvath smiled.

  The other guard said something into a handheld radio and motioned for Harvath to follow him. Once more, he did as he was told.

  They walked up a stone pathway to the front door, where, just as he had expected, he was checked for weapons. Another switched-on, bespoke security guard waved him with a metal-detecting wand.

  Once he was content that Harvath didn’t have any weapons, he opened the door, an alarm panel chimed, and he showed him in.

  It was like walking into Versailles, on crack. Everything was covered in gold leaf—the railings, the balustrades, the furniture, the mirror frames, the light fixtures, the capitals on the pink marble columns, the crown molding, the door hardware, even the four-foot-high griffins at the bottom of the staircase.

  To call it “overdone” would have been a massive understatement. Harvath had only one word for it all: “Wow.”

  “Mr. Molteni, welcome,” said a small, obsequious man with a Russian accent. He had dark, curly hair parted on the side and wore an ill-fitting blazer with a polo shirt. “My name is Jakob. I am the estate manager.”

  Harvath shook his hand and thanked him for seeing him.

  Jakob gazed appreciatively around the entry. “Isn’t it something?”

  “It’s something, all right,” Harvath replied.

  “Where would you like to start?”

  “Any place you wish. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “Let’s start in the great hall.”

  Harvath followed and listened as the man recounted the history of the house. It had been built in 1908 by a Russian—General Nikolas of Malzoff—who hailed from St. Petersburg.