Foreign Agent: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  Where had they come from? How many had returned home? How many had stayed behind? How many had been killed or wounded? How were they recruited? Who had done the recruiting? Were specific plans in the works for attacks inside Russia? What and who were their targets? How did cell members communicate? How were they financed? And so on.

  It was critical intelligence and no one was better positioned than Baseyev to secure it. Whatever Proskurov needed to say, whatever he needed to promise, he would. It was imperative that Baseyev complete his assignment.

  The General looked out the thick, bulletproof glass of his Land Cruiser as they drove through the streets of Damascus. It was an intriguing city—exotic, but with enough modern conveniences to make it comfortable.

  He liked it better than Moscow. That wasn’t saying much, though. He liked any place better than Moscow.

  The only place he disliked more was his hometown, Dzerzhinsk. It was a hub for Russia’s chemicals industry. And with the chemical companies had come chemical weapons programs.

  Dzerzhinsk, appropriately enough, had been named after the very first head of Russia’s secret police. Its soil and water were polluted. Birth defects and cancer were through the roof. It was said that the death rate in Dzerzhinsk was three times the birthrate. Only Chernobyl was more toxic. Proskurov shuddered at the thought of it. He was glad to have gotten out.

  But while he had turned his back on Dzerzhinsk, Dzerzhinsk hadn’t turned its back on him.

  A year into his first marriage he learned he was sterile. The doctors couldn’t identify a cause. He, though, knew exactly what had robbed him of the ability to produce offspring—Dzerzhinsk. His hate for the city of his birth swelled.

  His wife ended up leaving him because of his sterility. It was a crushing blow. As only a true Russian can, he had drowned his pain in vodka and thrown himself into his military career.

  He remarried years later. She had no children and didn’t want any. She was a good enough companion. She didn’t mind his long stretches away from home.

  When he was home, she cooked for him and they made love. All told, it would have been cheaper to keep a one-room apartment and visit prostitutes in Moscow. But knowing he was tied to another human being somewhere in the world made his assignments abroad more bearable.

  It didn’t, though, make any of them easier. Especially not this one.

  Russia had gone all in on Syria. And after they had gone all in, they had doubled down. They didn’t intend to allow the Turks, the Saudis, or anyone else to dislodge them.

  In addition to the recently arrived Slava-class guided missile cruiser Moskva, and three more Ropucha-class amphibious assault ships based at Tartus, Russia’s sole aircraft carrier, the Admiral Kuznetsov, was now in the Mediterranean along with her escort the Admiral Chabanenko, a Udaloy II–class destroyer.

  Then there were the aircraft.

  Ninety kilometers north of Tartus was the Khmeimim air base—accessible only to Russian personnel. In the last two days, a fleet of Su-35S supermaneuverable multirole fighters had been flown in. They were the most modern fighter aircraft in service with the Russian Air Force and this was the first time they had ever been put into operation outside Russia’s borders.

  Two Tu-214Rs had also been flown in. The Tu-214R was Russia’s most advanced reconnaissance and surveillance aircraft. With all-weather radar systems and highly sophisticated electro optical sensors, the spy plane was incredibly adept at pinpointing hidden or camouflaged targets. It could also scoop up and monitor enemy communications and electronic signals.

  Topping it all off, state-of-the-art S-400 defense missile systems had been moved into Syria to protect Russian assets.

  The message Russia was sending to the rest of the world was crystal clear: Don’t fuck with us.

  It was an enormous gamble, which made Proskurov’s task even more crucial. He would not be the man who let his country down.

  Rolling up to the saltbox, one of the detail agents jumped out and opened up the gates.

  After the SUVs were through, he closed the gates behind them. Inside the courtyard, the vehicles turned around so that they were facing out, ready to leave once Proskurov’s meeting was over.

  The Spetsnaz operative opened the General’s door and the man stepped out with his laptop bag over his shoulder and a small cardboard box, which contained tea and a few other items from back home he thought Baseyev might enjoy.

  Removing a key ring from his pocket, he unlocked one of the courtyard doors and stepped inside. There was a samovar in the kitchen. He wanted to fire it up and start heating water for tea.

  He found making tea the old fashioned way relaxing. It also tasted better than using an electric kettle.

  His favorite tea was Russian Caravan—a blend of oolong, Keemun, and Lapsang souchong. It had a smoky flavor to it that mimicked the tea of old, imported from China to Russia via camel caravans. During the long journey—sometimes a year to a year and a half, the tea absorbed its distinct flavor from the caravan campfires.

  Placing the samovar in the sink, he filled it with water. Then, removing the sack of kindling and wood chips he kept in the cabinet, he packed the cylinder in the center with just the right amount of fuel.

  Patting his pockets, he realized that he had left his cigarettes, and with them his lighter, in the car. There had to be a box of kitchen matches somewhere, though.

  After looking through several drawers, he finally found them in a cabinet near the coffee mugs.

  Placing the samovar on the stove, he removed a match from the box, but hesitated in striking it.

  The hair on the back of his neck was suddenly standing on end. He didn’t know what, but something was wrong.

  Setting the match and matchbox down on the counter, he turned to walk out of the kitchen. As he did, an enormous explosion detonated outside, shattering the windows and sending an enormous shockwave through the building.

  CHAPTER 57

  The first Wasp had come screaming in and had detonated with such a loud explosion that they hadn’t even known the second missile had been launched until it hit the second SUV with an eruption that sent an enormous fireball roiling up into the night sky.

  “Now!” Harvath commanded back to northern Virginia.

  Nicholas, who had hacked into the Damascus power grid, shut down the electricity in a ten-block radius. The entire neighborhood went dark.

  Hitting the roof of the saltbox, Harvath gave the signal for the Hadids and their men to follow.

  Charging the stairwell door, he racked his shotgun and placed it at a forty-five degree angle in, forty-five degrees down. Taking it off the safety, he looked at Thoman, who was his cover man.

  When Thoman nodded, Harvath pressed the trigger and sent one of his heavy slugs flying into the area between the lock and the door frame. He then turned and mule-kicked the door. It didn’t budge.

  Turning around, he racked the shotgun and went after the hinges.

  The weapon thundered as he unleashed three more rounds.

  This time when he kicked, the door exploded inward. Thoman peered down into the stairwell, his weapon raised, ready for any threat that might have been waiting on the other side. It was empty.

  Harvath handed off the shotgun and transitioned to his rifle. Tapping Thoman, who moved out of the way, he took up the point position and led the team down into the building.

  The stairwell glowed ghostly gray-white in their thermal-vision goggles. Harvath had no idea if the Russians had similar equipment or not. According to the team in the overwatch position, only Proskurov was seen getting out of a vehicle carrying anything—a bag of some sort over his shoulder and a small box. If the Spetsnaz team did have night-vision or thermal equipment, Harvath hoped that they had left it in their SUVs and it had all gone up in flames.

  Stepping out onto the second floor, Harvath swept his AK f
rom side to side.

  All of the windows facing down into the courtyard had been blown out. Broken glass littered the Persian rugs. The fires from outside were burning so hot he could feel the heat on his face. Dust and smoke choked the air. The building would soon be completely engulfed.

  Harvath signaled for his B team to take cover and hold their position. He then motioned for the Hadid brothers to follow him. Sidestepping the glass, they moved rapidly down the hallway.

  They passed two bedrooms. Both were empty. Reaching the stairs that led to the ground floor, he made a decision and said, “Wait here.”

  Before the Hadids could object, Harvath had disappeared down the stairs and into the thickening smoke.

  When he reached the ground floor, he scanned the room. The thermal goggles allowed him to see through the smoke and dust. He could make out an overturned table, chairs, and a sofa. What he couldn’t see were any Russians.

  Then he heard shots fired from outside. Within seconds, it was a full-on gunfight. Proskurov and his detail must have tried to make a run for the street.

  Based on the position of the two Syrians outside, Harvath knew that the Russians would be pinned down. The Hadids’ men had excellent cover and concealment. They could rain lead down on the Russians all night without exposing themselves. But then something happened.

  As soon as Harvath heard the explosion, he knew what it was. Someone had thrown a grenade. None of the Syrians outside were carrying any. It had to have been the Russians. Damn it. They weren’t coming back inside the building. They were going to make their escape on foot!

  Harvath began shouting instructions over the radio as he raced out into the courtyard.

  There were twisted pieces of flaming metal everywhere. Columns of charcoal-black smoke twisted up into the sky.

  Rounds were still being fired, but it sounded like it was coming from only one weapon.

  Pulling up short against the courtyard wall, Harvath dropped to one knee. Bringing his weapon up, he leaned out around the edge of the wall and took a quick look.

  At the end of the drive, just inside the gates, was a lone male firing a short, fully automatic weapon. His attention was focused across the street, where the Hadids’ men had been.

  From this distance, it looked like he was shooting a Bizon SMG—a 9mm submachine gun popular with Russian counterterrorism units.

  He was laying down cover fire, helping Proskurov and the rest of the detail to escape. He should have kept an eye on his six o’clock.

  Lining up his sights, Harvath took the shot and dropped him right at the gates. One down.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned to see the Hadids rushing out of the building and into the courtyard.

  “Where are the rest of your men?”

  Thoman pointed up. “They’re using the rooftops.”

  Mathan was carrying a thin laptop bag. “Where’d you find that?” Harvath asked.

  “On the floor inside. I think it may be the bag Proskurov was carrying.”

  Harvath nodded and looked at his watch. As soon as the Russians had realized they were under attack, one of them would have called for a quick response team from their embassy.

  In a perfect world, they would have had ten minutes. The real world being what it was, Harvath figured they had less than five. And if the Syrian army hadn’t been activated yet, it would be soon.

  Running for the gates, he drew even with the Spetsnaz soldier he had shot. He looked down. The man was still alive. That was a problem.

  He had an earpiece in his ear, a microphone just inside his jacket, and he was babbling in Russian.

  Applying pressure to his trigger, Harvath put two rounds into him, point-blank. End of problem.

  Taking the man’s radio, he stepped up to the gates and looked out.

  On the sidewalk, another Spetsnaz man was down in a huge pool of blood. He wasn’t moving. The Hadids’ men had managed to get one. Good for them.

  “Which way did they go?” Harvath asked.

  “Overwatch says they went left,” Mathan replied, chopping the air with his left hand.

  Harvath held the radio up to his ear and listened. A quick response team, or QRT for short, was in fact inbound. They had just loaded up and were rolling out the Embassy gates. “Shest’ minuty,” a voice said. Six minutes.

  When Harvath nodded, the Hadids leaned out of the gates and aimed their weapons in opposite directions to give him cover.

  After making sure the Russian on the sidewalk was dead, he tore across the street and took cover between two badly damaged cars. Both of the Syrians assigned to cover the front of the saltbox had been blown to pieces.

  Propping his weapon up on the hood of the parked car he was hiding behind, he waved Mathan over. Once he was safely across, his brother joined them. Then, they hauled ass as carefully as they could down the sidewalk.

  They had almost reached the end of the block, when Thoman and Mathan in unison said, “Stop!”

  One of their men was relaying something over the radio in rapid Arabic.

  “We’ve got them,” Thoman replied.

  “Where?” said Harvath.

  “Apartment building on the corner.”

  “Do your people have eyes on?”

  Mathan nodded. “Ittak is the man who fired one of the Wasps and then came to provide backup. He followed the Russians.”

  He was smart not to engage, thought Harvath. “Good, tell him to stay out of sight and just keep watching.”

  Mathan relayed Harvath’s instructions as they kept moving.

  Just before the intersection, they pulled up short and stopped at the rear of the building.

  Harvath scanned the area through his thermals. He could make out the B team crouched behind the parapet on the roof across the street.

  Pointing at them, he asked Thoman, “How’s their accuracy at that distance?”

  The man raised his thumb, but turned it upside down. “They’re not snipers.”

  “They might not have to be,” replied Harvath, who then pointed at the boulevard down at the corner and said, “Your man with the fifty-cal and his spotter—”

  “Outha and Koshy.”

  Harvath shook his head. “Whatever. The Russian Embassy has a team coming in. They’re going to pull up in front of that building any minute now to pick up their people. Your men need to be ready to take them out. Same thing if the army or police show up. Understood?”

  Thoman nodded and immediately began radioing orders to his men.

  Mathan looked at Harvath. “And us?”

  Harvath glanced at the T-shirt under his jacket. “How good are you and your brother with pistols at close range?”

  CHAPTER 58

  Smartphones in hand to light their way, the long-haired, T-shirt- and high-top-wearing Hadids strode into the lobby of the apartment building like they lived there.

  The moment they did, the Russians were all over them.

  “Hands! Hands!” the two remaining Spetsnaz operatives ordered in horrible Arabic as they shined flashlights into the brothers’ faces.

  The twins complied immediately and raised their hands in a “don’t shoot” gesture.

  “On the ground!” one of the soldiers commanded.

  Mathan looked at him. “On the ground?”

  “ON THE GROUND!” the man roared again in Arabic. He had no idea who these two were and he didn’t care. He wasn’t playing. The QRT would be here any second. Once it was, they could make their escape. Until then, he was in charge and these two Syrians were going to obey.

  “But we live here,” Thoman protested in Arabic. “Fourth floor.”

  The Russian put the barrel of his weapon right in his face.

  Mathan appealed for calm and encouraged his brother to cooperate. Slowly, the Hadids lay down on their stomachs.
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  “Who the hell are you?” Thoman demanded. “What’s this all about?”

  “Shut up,” the Russian growled.

  At that moment, the twins’ phones chimed with a group text from Harvath. That was their signal.

  “This is bullshit,” Mathan said as he began to get up.

  “Total bullshit,” Thoman agreed, starting to get up as well.

  The Russians closed in. One drew his boot back, ready to kick the nearest Hadid. As he did, a shot rang out from across the marble-clad lobby.

  Harvath, his SIG Sauer gripped in his hands, had sent a round speeding toward the Spetsnaz operative. It caught the man just above his left ear and went straight through his brain, killing him instantly.

  Before the other Russian could react, Thoman and Mathan had drawn their pistols from beneath their shirts and began firing. The man never had a chance.

  The brothers kept firing until their slides locked back and their weapons ran dry. Then they just stood there taking in the carnage.

  “Let’s move!” Harvath ordered, breaking the spell.

  He had covertly surveilled the lobby before the Hadids had entered and now dragged Proskurov from the stairwell where his security team had hidden him. “Back door,” he said. “Now!”

  Inserting fresh magazines into their weapons, the Hadids followed.

  Harvath jammed his pistol into the back of General Proskurov’s flabby neck. “I know you speak English,” he said as he hustled him along. “If you resist, I’ll kill you. Is that clear?”

  Proskurov nodded. He had trained countless soldiers on how to deal with capture.

  This, though, felt different. And Proskurov was aware of what the Americans were capable of. He would need to do everything he could to stay alive.

  Out on the street, Harvath steered them away from the grand boulevard and back toward the saltbox. It was about to get very nasty.

  They had only made it a half block when they heard the vehicles from the Russian Embassy screech to a halt outside the apartment building.