Foreign Agent: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

“Meaning the best that money can buy.”

  The CIA Director nodded.

  “What about inserting a team with him?”

  “One white guy,” Ryan replied, “one set of problems. Many white guys? Many problems.”

  “But it could be done.”

  “Anything is possible. Yes, sir.”

  Porter looked back at Carlton. “Obviously, I have concerns and would feel better knowing someone had his back. Ultimately, though, this is your call. He’s your man.”

  Carlton appreciated the President’s candor. “Thank you, Mr. President. It’s undoubtedly a trade-off, but I think the smaller the footprint, the better. I know he’d tell you that too.”

  Porter gave one last push. “This won’t be like Berlin. We’re talking about one of the GRU’s top people. Harvath won’t have any reliable backup in Damascus.”

  “Correct. This won’t be like Berlin. But we’re going to have something we didn’t have there.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bait.”

  The President leaned back in his chair as he weighed his options. It was not an easy task. There was no instruction manual that came with this job. No index that directed you to page y when faced with crisis x.

  When trouble came, it seemed to come pounding down all at once, like a hailstorm, or, more aptly—like a tidal wave.

  He had kept his circle to just the people with him in the room right now. He couldn’t trust anyone else. Not with something this sensitive, and not while the leak was still unidentified.

  Which made the President ask McGee, “How are you going to plug Harvath into the Agency’s network in Syria without any of this getting leaked?”

  It was a fair question and one that the CIA Director had already anticipated. “Eyewash,” he replied.

  “Eyewash?”

  “We’ll put out a memo into a few of our internal channels that says we have reason to believe that multiple CIA intelligence sources in Syria have been compromised. Until further notice, reporting from any Syrian sources is to be considered suspect.

  “If the Russians do get ahold of the information, it’ll leave them with the impression that we’re in disarray when it comes to Syria. It’ll also create some smoke for Harvath. If it gets reported that he’s in Syria, the report will automatically be suspect.

  “And just to keep them guessing, we’ll distribute a second memo to an even tighter circle higher up the food chain. That memo will put everyone on notice that we’re sending in specialists to assess all of Syrian sources and that it’s to be kept absolutely quiet.”

  “Won’t your people resent being lied to like that?” Porter asked.

  “Not as much as I’ll resent having to do it. But in the intelligence game, sometimes it has to be done.”

  Carlton and Ryan both nodded in agreement.

  “And what about the leak itself?”

  “We’re still working it from our end. But at this point, Harvath may end up being our best chance to uncover it.”

  “Meaning he gets a name,” the President replied.

  “A name, an email address, a cell phone number. I’d be content just to know what kind of shampoo the guy uses. At least that would be a start. Because right now, we really don’t have anything.”

  Porter didn’t like hearing it, but that was the situation. The people he was looking at were not paid to lie to him. “And what about the second half of Harvath’s proposed operation?”

  “Obviously, that will depend on how successful he is in Damascus,” Carlton replied.

  Ryan then added, “Suffice to say that if Damascus goes sideways, we’re not going to be left with any choice.”

  The President let that sink in for a moment. A silence fell over the room. Finally, he said, “Then we’d better do everything we can and hope like hell that he’s successful.”

  CHAPTER 48

  AMMAN, JORDAN

  Getting Harvath into Syria was the first challenge McGee and Ryan had to tackle. There was a secret airstrip the Pentagon had been using in the north of the country, but it was hundreds of kilometers away from Damascus.

  They contemplated flying him into Iraq and moving him across the desert, but that was fraught with problems, including potential contact with ISIS.

  The best bet was to land him in Amman, Jordan. From there, it was only two hundred kilometers north to Damascus. All they had to do was get him across the Syrian border.

  A white Embraer Legacy 600 business jet with crimson stripes delivered Harvath from Malta to Amman in less than three hours. Upon his arrival, a covert CIA operative named Williams met him at the airport.

  Williams was a NOC, operating in Jordan without any diplomatic cover. McGee had known him for decades and told Harvath he could trust him.

  Williams drove Harvath to a small apartment that the CIA kept off the books. After setting up a white backdrop, he took Harvath’s picture in front of it, and then another in profile looking out the window. He told him to help himself to whatever he found in the kitchen. He’d be back in the morning with a new passport and to drive Harvath to the border.

  The tiny apartment was stuffy and probably hadn’t been used in a while. Harvath opened a couple of windows and walked into the compact kitchen.

  Searching through the cabinets, he found a bottle of Bulleit bourbon. How Williams had laid his hands on it in a place like Amman was beyond him. But that’s what made a NOC a NOC. They were highly resourceful.

  Pouring himself a drink, he grabbed a few pieces of pita bread and a container of hummus and walked back into the living room.

  The sounds of motorbikes, car horns, and radios ebbed and flowed through the open windows like a tide. The music was distinctly Arab.

  Turning out the lights, he pulled up a chair and took it all in as he ate.

  He referred to these moments as “precompression.” It was another term for getting his head in the game—of focusing in on where he was and what he needed to do. It was the opposite of “decompression,” which happened after an assignment was complete and he tried to put everything out of his mind and behind him.

  Getting up only to fix another drink, he sat at the window for over an hour taking it all in, especially the conversations in Arabic as locals came and went along the sidewalk below.

  He was in a totally different world now. Different people, different motivations, different rules. No matter how many times he had been sent to the Middle East, it always felt alien to him. There was no other way to describe it. And there was no other place in the world like it.

  After taking a shower, he lay down on the bed. An old ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, barely moving the air.

  He had hoped the bourbon would help him sleep, but his mind drifted to Lara.

  “Married?” she had asked him when they first met. “Any kids?”

  “No,” he had replied.

  “Divorced?”

  “No.”

  “I knew it,” she had said. “The haircut and the suit were a dead giveaway.”

  “Of what?” His hair was short and he was wearing an expensive Brooks Brothers suit.

  “Don’t be so defensive. Boston’s a progressive city. We’ve got gay cops on the force.”

  He had laughed. “I’m not gay.”

  “So what’s your problem, then?” she had asked. “Never grew up? Peter Pan syndrome?”

  “Just never met the right girl.”

  “You shouldn’t be looking for a girl. You should be looking for a woman.”

  She was, of course, completely right. Then she had added, “If you’ve come this far in life without finding the right person, the problem isn’t them, it’s you.”

  Three sentences. That’s all they were. But they had completely changed his life.

  She reminded him that a “perfect ten” doe
sn’t exist, which at the time seemed almost funny coming from such an attractive woman. But he grew to understand what she meant. “If you’re hitting on five out of six cylinders with someone who truly cares about you,” she said, “you should run all the way to the bank with it.”

  She was right. She was also an amazing woman. He knew he’d never meet someone like her again.

  And with that, he finally knew what he was going to do once this assignment was over.

  • • •

  Williams showed up at dawn with two cups of Starbucks coffee and a large shopping bag.

  “Sorry,” he said, handing one of the cups to him. “The knock-off Dunkin’ Donuts shop wasn’t open yet.”

  Harvath smiled and took the lid off his cup. He hadn’t been to Amman in a while. “Which one has better coffee?”

  “I don’t like that they’re ripping off an American brand, but they have damn good coffee. Cheaper too. Doughnuts aren’t bad,” said Williams.

  “Is that what’s in your shopping bag?”

  The NOC grinned. “Fancy guy like you gets a muffin,” he replied, reaching into the bag and tossing one to him.

  “Thanks,” Harvath said. “Anything else?”

  Williams peered into his shopping bag like an office party Santa Claus. “I don’t know. Lemme look. Did you order a new set of Louis Vuitton luggage?”

  “Not really my style.”

  “I didn’t think so,” the CIA man replied as he removed a hard-sided Pelican briefcase and set it on the table. “There you go. Special delivery.”

  Opening the lid, Harvath recognized the logo inside immediately. Palafox Solutions Group was a company out of Gulf Breeze, Florida.

  It was run by a SEAL who had retired as a master chief, gone into the private sector, and now had all sorts of interesting contracts. One of them was to build “capability kits” for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Capability kits were loaded with all the things an intelligence or counterterrorism operative might need, but couldn’t enter a foreign country with.

  Sometimes all Harvath needed was a weapon; sometimes he needed more. There was no one-size-fits-all solution.

  The first thing Harvath removed was a sand-colored, modified Palafox 9mm SIG Sauer P226 pistol. It had bright green TRUGLO Tritium/Fiber-Optic Day/Night sights that allowed for fast target acquisition regardless of light conditions. Portions of the slide had been milled away to lessen the weapon’s weight. It also helped to reduce muzzle flip and better assist recoil management.

  Accompanying the pistol was a Sticky-brand inside-the-waistband holster, spare magazines, and several boxes of TNQ frangible 9mm ammunition.

  There was also a jet-black, ultra-compact, single-shot Taser X26P, a flashlight, a compass, and a small trauma kit. It was a first-class set-up.

  The last item Harvath removed was a stunning, fixed-blade knife by Daniel Winkler called the Spike. The team at Palafox obviously knew what it was doing because the knife came in a leather sheath. Leather not only stropped the blade each time it was drawn, it was whisper quiet. Kydex looked cool, but it made a lot of noise.

  Next, Williams handed over Harvath’s passport and an envelope full of pocket litter—receipts, a canceled boarding pass, a handful of business cards that looked like they had been in someone’s wallet for a while—that would back up his new identity.

  He looked at the passport and memorized the information. He was a Canadian, from Ottawa. Williams handed him a series of articles, authored under his assumed name, dealing with conflict zones and humanitarian crises.

  They had been backdated to a faux blog the CIA sat on a commercial server in Canada. The photo Williams had taken the night before of him at the window served as his profile photo.

  He then handed Harvath a laminated international press credential on an Associated Press lanyard. It was the best the Agency could do in such a short amount of time.

  Harvath looked it over, knowing it didn’t have to be perfect. All it had to do was get him across the border.

  Once he was ready, he followed Williams downstairs to his car.

  CHAPTER 49

  The Nasib Border Crossing marked the international border between Jordan and Syria. It sat right on the Amman–Damascus highway and had long been known as one of the busiest crossings for either country. But while the Jordanians had been able to keep their side under control, the Syrians hadn’t been as successful.

  The Syrian side of the checkpoint had changed hands so many times throughout the civil war, there was no telling which interest might be in charge once you rolled up on it, or if it would “technically” even be open.

  But in Jordan, as in Syria, and everywhere else, the right amount of money opened all doors.

  Williams had arranged for Harvath to ride up to Damascus with a Syrian truck driver. The agency had used him multiple times in the past.

  He’s “reliable.” That was the best that Williams could say about him. “Don’t expect him to stick his neck out.”

  Harvath didn’t expect anything more than a ride.

  Williams pulled into a small roadside gas station and café a few kilometers from the border. He had one more thing to give Harvath.

  Reaching behind his seat, he retrieved a gray nylon camera bag and handed it to him. “The camera is to further backstop your cover, but whatever pictures you can get, the Agency would be glad to have.”

  “Got it,” Harvath replied.

  “There are two envelopes in the outer compartment. All the border guards know the going rate for safe passage. One envelope is for the Jordanian side, the other is for the Syrian.”

  “And the rest of the money?”

  “Inside the shoulder strap,” said Williams.

  Harvath felt along the padding. They had done a good job layering the bills between the thin pieces of foam.

  “You’ll keep that in the cab of the truck,” he continued. “Along with your backpack. The gun and everything else, though, is going in a hidden compartment in back.”

  Harvath had figured as much. That said, he had already removed the knife and was going to keep it with him. If they caught him with it, then they caught him with it. Culturally, a knife for the Jordanians or the Syrians was not that big a deal. A gun or a Taser, on the other hand, was a big deal.

  “If you want to hit the head,” Williams said as he put his car in park and turned off the ignition, “now would be a good time.”

  He nodded and followed him inside. As Williams went to locate his contact, Harvath used the restroom.

  Removing the camera from the bag, he checked to make sure the batteries were charged and a memory card was installed.

  Satisfied that everything was in order, he left the men’s room, bought a bottle of water at the counter, and walked back outside to the parking lot.

  Williams was chatting with a heavyset Syrian in a green, sweat-stained T-shirt, gray polyester trousers, and tan sandals. When he saw Harvath, he waved him over. “Yusuf, this is Russ. Russ, this is Yusuf.”

  The men shook hands and Williams spent several more moments speaking with Yusuf in Arabic.

  When he was done, Williams looked at Harvath and said, “Best of luck on your article. Don’t forget to take lots of pictures.”

  “I won’t. What about the rest of my gear?”

  “Already taken care of,” Williams replied. Then, pulling Harvath in for a hug, he quietly said, “False compartment above last set of wheels. Passenger side.”

  “Got it,” said Harvath as Williams backed away and waved him toward the cab.

  “Ready?” Yusuf asked.

  He had a mouthful of yellow teeth and wide eyes that showed the whites all the way around. He swept them back and forth, constantly assessing his surroundings.

  “Ready,” Harvath responded.

  They climbed in
to the cab of the truck. It was thick with the odor of cigarettes. The ashtray was crammed with butts. Several strings of beads hung from the rearview mirror.

  Harvath’s backpack had already been placed behind his seat. He laid the gray camera bag at his feet.

  Yusuf started his vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot. Lighting a cigarette, he pointed out the window at the sky. “Good day for making a drive.”

  Harvath nodded. “Yes. Good day. Where did you learn English?”

  “University,” the man replied. “Aleppo.”

  “What did you study?”

  With the cigarette hanging from between his lips, Yusuf changed lanes and said, “Transportation engineering. Now I drive truck.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  He nodded. “It is why I drive this truck.”

  “Someday, the fighting will stop.”

  “Insha’Allah.”

  “Insha’Allah,” Harvath repeated.

  “Hal tatakallamu alloghah alarabiah?” Do you speak Arabic?

  “Qualeelan.” Only a little.

  Yusuf smiled and took a drag on his cigarette. “Why you want to go Syria?”

  Harvath fished out his press credential from beneath his shirt and held it up. “Journalist.”

  They both knew that wasn’t true. “Why Syria?” he repeated.

  “I’m looking for some people.”

  “Bad people?”

  Harvath nodded.

  “Syria has many of those,” Yusuf replied, removing the cigarette from his mouth and picking a piece of stray tobacco from his tongue.

  “What about you, Yusuf? Are you a bad man or a good man?

  He thought about it for a moment and then, flashing his yellow smile, said, “It depends on the day.”

  Harvath liked him and smiled back. “How big is your family?”

  Yusuf’s smile faded as he saw the Jordanian checkpoint up ahead. “We talk after we cross,” he said.

  Harvath nodded.

  “You have the money?”

  Harvath nodded again.

  “Give to me.”