Foreign Agent: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  “Thank you,” Harvath replied, as he reached behind his seat and grabbed his backpack.

  “Are you sure you want to get out here? It’s not a very good neighborhood.”

  Harvath smiled at him. “I’ll be okay. I know what I’m doing. I’m a journalist.”

  The Syrian laughed.

  “You’re a good man,” Harvath said, extending his hand.

  “It depends on the day,” Yusuf replied, extending his.

  Harvath gathered up his backpack and camera bag. Opening his door, he climbed down.

  He slung his pack, reached up for the door, and smiled once more at Yusuf. “Keep your phone turned on,” he said.

  Then, shutting the door, he turned and disappeared into the crowded neighborhood.

  CHAPTER 52

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Senator Wells stepped back into the Meet the Press greenroom from Hair and Makeup and helped himself to a Diet Coke. He knew most of the other guests and chatted with them briefly about what they would all be speaking on.

  Last week, the Sunday shows had been consumed with the attack on American personnel in Anbar and the horrific video depicting the rape of female Embassy staffers. This week it was all about the assassination of Secretary of Defense Devon and the suicide bombing at the White House.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Wells noticed his Chief of Staff engaged in a private conversation with one of the show’s new producers. He had transferred in from NBC News in New York. Rebecca was wasting no time in getting to know him. Wells could feel the heat between the two of them all the way across the room. The woman was a force of nature and could have any man eating out of the palm of her hand within seconds.

  A young production assistant interrupted his thoughts. She came in and gave the five-minute warning, and then turned up the sound on the monitors so that everyone could follow along with the program.

  “You look terrific,” Rebecca said, as the producer left and she rejoined the Senator. “Very presidential.”

  “Make a new friend?”

  “He’s married, so we’ll see,” she said with a coy smile.

  Wells put his hands up. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Sure you don’t,” she whispered as she leaned in and brushed some lint off his suit.

  Even in a room full of people she was incorrigible. “They’re going to lead with you. You’ll be first up in the A block.

  “They want to talk obviously about Secretary Devon and what happened at the White House. They also want to discuss what happened in Anbar and the story in the Washington Post this morning about President Porter possibly running his own black ops out of the Oval Office.”

  Lilliana Grace had tipped him late last night that the story was going to run today. Under the headline “America Under Attack,” the Post was doing in-depth stories on the assassination of Devon and the suicide bomber at the White House.

  There was a follow-up on the Anbar attack and tying it all together was Grace’s story about the President’s alleged program.

  The reporter had spent the last couple of days methodically tracking down every lead she could. She spoke to members of the Gang of Eight, the extra-tight circle of Congress people and intel committee members the President was required to brief. All confirmed that they had been briefed on Anbar.

  Off the record, Grace was able to confirm enough of what Wells had told her to pull together quite an impactful story.

  In quick succession, she explained the importance of the National Security Act of 1947, the Hughes-Ryan Amendment of 1974, the Intelligence Oversight Act of 1980, and the Intelligence Authorization Act of 1991 and their impact on the interlocking webs of Congress, the Oval Office, and the intelligence community.

  Instead of being dry policy-speak or legalese, she made it sexy and intriguing—like something out of a dramatic, high-stakes spy movie. She was a gifted reporter. This was going to be a great interview.

  “You’ve been on with Alan Gottlieb plenty of times,” Rebecca reminded him. “He’s a great host, but he’s not your friend. Okay?”

  “I’ve been doing this since before you were born. I know how to handle the press.”

  Rebecca was about to respond when a middle-aged man wearing a headset and a Star Wars T-shirt entered the greenroom. “Senator Wells?” he asked.

  “Right here,” Rebecca replied, waving him over.

  “Hello, Senator. I’m Abe, from Audio. Just going to get you mic’d up here if I can.”

  “Sure thing, Abe from Audio. Whatever you need,” Wells answered.

  As soon as the technician had the microphone attached to the Senator’s lapel and the transmitter clipped to his waistband, he asked him to count to ten.

  Wells did as instructed and Abe flashed him the thumbs-up.

  “Any IFB?” the Senator asked, pointing to his ear.

  Abe double-checked with the control room over his headset. “No, sir. They’re not running any packages you need to listen to. You’ll be speaking directly to Alan on the set. Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Break a leg,” Rebecca said as Abe led the Senator out of the greenroom and down the hall to the studio.

  Out on the brightly lit set, Alan Gottlieb—a charming veteran journalist with a hundred-dollar haircut and a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit—was running through his opening monologue.

  Abe from audio showed the Senator to his seat. A PA brought over a mug featuring the show’s logo and filled with water and placed it in front of him.

  As soon as Gottlieb had finished his monologue, he reached over and shook hands with Wells. “Good to see you again, Senator. Thank you for joining us this morning.”

  “Thirty seconds,” the floor director said.

  The crew took their places, cameras were adjusted one final time, and the next thing they knew, they were live.

  As Gottlieb read his monologue from the teleprompter, Wells watched the video montage that the viewers at home were seeing.

  It was a mash-up of news footage combined with the propaganda videos ISIS published after the attack in Anbar and on Secretary Devon in Turkey. Rounding it all out was footage of what had happened at the White House.

  The red light above camera 1 came on and Gottlieb welcomed viewers to the program. After introducing Senator Wells, Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, they were off and running.

  The Senator struck the proper tone right out of the gate. He expressed sadness over those who had died, extended condolences to their friends and loved ones, and promised that the victims would not be allowed to have died in vain. He could have been delivering an address right from the Oval Office itself. It was that perfect.

  Even though he had not been at all close with Secretary Devon, he played up his respect for the man and the “friendship” they’d shared. Rebecca had briefed him on the names of Devon’s wife and children and he rattled them off as if they had spent every weekend together.

  Wells was nothing if not a master manipulator, a thoroughly professional politician. Back in the greenroom, Rebecca wasn’t watching the monitors. She was watching the guests as they watched the monitors. All of them were riveted, hanging on the Senator’s every word.

  Rebecca smiled. Jesus, he’s good, she said to herself. They were going to go all the way to the White House together. She just knew it.

  As the interview wound down, Gottlieb had one last question. “Finally, Senator, I want to ask you to comment on something.”

  “Go ahead, Alan,” Wells replied.

  “We understand that your committee may have information that the White House knew of a possible threat in advance of Secretary Devon’s trip to Turkey. A, is this true? And B, what specifically did the White House know, and not only when did they know it, but what did they do about it?”

  The producer bit.
Rebecca had felt sure he would. The moment he had heard that a competing network was after the story, he had been hooked.

  They didn’t like to air gossip or speculation, but this was too big a scoop to risk not being first on. His only concern had been how to properly phrase the question so there was no blowback for Gottlieb and their team.

  On set, the Senator’s jaw tensed. He wanted to ask Gottlieb where he had heard that, but he knew damn well. Rebecca had told somebody. Damn it. They were going to have a very long talk when they left the studio.

  Without missing a beat, Wells replied, “ISIS has made it very clear that they consider all Americans potential targets. Any time the President, a cabinet member, a member of Congress travels overseas, there’s increased risk.”

  “But are you aware, sir of any specific threat that existed against Secretary Devon on his trip to Antalya, Turkey?”

  Gottlieb had him between a rock and a hard place. If he said yes and Rebecca’s information, which he still had not substantiated, turned out to be false, he’d be in trouble. If he said no and Rebecca’s information turned out to be true, he’d look like he didn’t have his finger on the pulse of what was going on. The national security cornerstone of his campaign was going to be built upon his experience as Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee.

  So, he gave the only answer he could give. “Alan, unfortunately I am not at liberty to discuss what the committee may or may not be working on. In light of everything that’s happened over the last week and a half, I’m sure you can understand.”

  “Of course, Senator,” the host replied. “Thank you for being with us today.”

  After teasing the next segment, they went to a commercial and the floor director gave the all clear.

  Wells took off his microphone and immediately went looking for his Chief of Staff.

  • • •

  At CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Brendan Cavanagh had had the television in his office on in the background.

  He didn’t need to rewind and play back what he had heard. He knew exactly what Senator Wells had said.

  He grabbed for his cell phone, pulled up his recent call list, and hit Redial.

  “We’re just getting ready to leave the studio. Can I call you back?”

  “No,” said Cavanagh. “We need to talk right now.”

  CHAPTER 53

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  In better times, twin brothers Thoman and Mathan Hadid could have passed for DJs or owners of a trendy local nightspot.

  The handsome young men were in their late twenties. They had olive skin and brown eyes. They wore their dark hair long enough to be swept back behind their ears.

  Their father was a politician who had been brutally tortured and executed by the Syrian regime. His sons had been working for the opposition ever since.

  Though they were young, McGee had assured Harvath that the Hadid brothers were two of the CIA’s best assets in the entire country. Before the war, they had been college students. Now, Thoman drove a cab and Mathan ran a small mechanic’s shop.

  Harvath found Thoman’s taxicab idling three blocks from where Yusuf had dropped him. Sliding in back, he said, “I’d like to visit the Umayyad Mosque.”

  “At this time of day,” the young man replied, “it is better to visit the Chapel of Saint Paul.”

  “What about the Midhat Pasha Souk?”

  “It is always a good time to visit the souk.”

  With their authentication complete, Harvath leaned back in his seat and Thoman activated his meter and pulled out into traffic.

  The young man took a long and circuitous route. Harvath watched as they passed through neighborhood after neighborhood, occasionally glancing down at the GPS on his phone to see where they were.

  Eleven minutes into their ride, he made Thoman come to a stop and take a right turn. As he did, a white motorcycle zoomed past.

  “He’s been following us for the last six blocks,” Harvath said.

  “I know,” the young Syrian replied.

  They drove for another fifteen minutes. The streets were full of traffic. Buses, cars, trucks, taxis—everyone was honking. They honked to change lanes, to signal where they were, and to allow others to pass. It reminded Harvath of Cairo, where they did exactly the same thing.

  There were people everywhere. Many of them were smokers. Both men and women appeared partial to Western fashion. A majority of women, but not all, chose to cover their hair with the Islamic head scarf known as the hijab. Some also covered their faces.

  Many of the buildings they passed were run-down, and some looked downright abandoned. One dramatic high rise looked as if it had been sitting unfinished for decades. Damascus was not a booming city. It was bleeding out. Dying.

  They parked the taxi in a quiet neighborhood and Harvath and Thoman proceeded on foot.

  The young Syrian was wearing canvas high-tops, black jeans, and a leather jacket. Underneath he sported a T-shirt emblazoned with the face of American comedian Bill Murray wearing a pair of 3-D glasses.

  They walked silently down a narrow alleyway to a set of tall wooden doors. At some point, they had been painted blue, but all the paint had long since chipped off and faded away.

  Thoman removed an old-fashioned skeleton key and opened the doors. It smelled like overripe garbage and cardboard boxes. Leaning against the wall was the white motorcycle Harvath had seen earlier.

  There was a small, wrought iron staircase illuminated by a cracked skylight several stories up. Thoman motioned for Harvath to follow him.

  They climbed to the third floor, where he knocked against a heavy, metal door. A shadow appeared at the peephole. Bolts were then pulled back and the door opened.

  Mathan greeted them dressed in blue jeans, boots, and a T-shirt proclaiming KEEP CALM AND CHIVE ON. Tucked in his waistband was a 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol.

  He stood back so they could pass and then closed and locked the door behind them. Thoman made the introductions. In addition to Arabic, both of the brothers spoke English and French.

  “Hungry?” Mathan asked as he led the men into the apartment.

  It was long and narrow, with exposed brick walls and timber beams. There were no bedrooms, only a large living space. The kitchen was comprised of a deep utility sink, a small fridge, a microwave, and a camping stove attached to a tank of propane.

  Nonperishable food and other necessities like candles, batteries, and toilet paper, were organized on commercial metal shelving. Cases of bottled water were stacked on the floor.

  “Yes, thank you,” Harvath replied. He hadn’t eaten since before leaving Amman.

  There was an old wooden table with mismatched plastic chairs. Thoman pulled one out and invited Harvath to sit.

  Mathan went to work pulling a few things from the fridge and nuking them in the microwave.

  In short order he set down a stack of warm pita bread, stuffed grape leaves, and a dish of lamb meatballs in tomato sauce. They were very fortunate not to be in one of the rebel areas blockaded by the regime.

  Thoman offered Harvath a bottle of room-temperature water, which he gladly accepted.

  After Mathan set the last item down and joined them at the table, he gestured for Harvath to begin serving himself.

  As they ate, the Hadids peppered him with questions about the conditions he had seen on his drive in. Harvath recounted all of it, including the trouble on the Syrian side of the border.

  When Harvath was done with his recap, he asked the brothers about the strength of the opposition and how their fight was going.

  “Russia’s escalations have changed everything,” said Mathan as he brewed tea. “They’re here for one reason and one reason only—to protect the regime and their own interests. They do not care about anything else. Nothing.”

  “They’re also incredibly brutal,�
� Thoman added. “Twenty-five regime soldiers could be killed in an attack and they would do nothing. But if a Russian was so much as scratched by a piece of glass, they go and unleash hell.”

  Harvath nodded. “That’s the Russian way. They never forget, and they never forgive. You know the old joke, right?”

  The brothers looked at him. “What joke?” Mathan asked.

  “An angel appears to three men—a Frenchman, an Italian, and a Russian,” said Harvath, “and tells them that tomorrow the world is going to end.

  “The angel asks what they want to do during their last night on earth. The Frenchman says he will get a case of the best champagne and spend his last night with his mistress. The Italian says he will visit his mistress and then go home to a last meal with his wife and children.

  “And the Russian?” Harvath asks, cocking his eyebrow and adopting a thick Russian accent. “Burn my neighbor’s barn.”

  The Hadids laughed. It was a good joke, and encapsulated who and what the Russians were.

  “So,” said Thoman, “you’re here to help create hell for the Russians.”

  “And hopefully ISIS too,” Harvath replied.

  “How?”

  He held up his hand. “First things first. Let’s talk about the person we asked your people to put under surveillance.”

  The Hadids took Harvath through everything they had learned about the subject. They showed him a map of the man’s neighborhood, the photographs their people had taken, and their list of what they saw as their best options.

  Harvath sat quietly and took it all in. They were about to mount a very serious operation. Nothing could be taken for granted. Every step they took had to be perfect.

  When the brothers finished debriefing Harvath, he had only one question for them. “How soon can we move?”

  CHAPTER 54

  Despite his pride in the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, Lieutenant General Oleg Proskurov didn’t wear a uniform. Neither did the four-man Spetsnaz team assigned to protect him. They rolled in civilian clothes and armored civilian vehicles. The idea was for them to fit in. But in Syria, the gaggle of Russians stuck out like a sore thumb.