by Brad Thor
“Like I said, Brendan is a sharp guy. He knew it wasn’t an accident. Nor was it an accident that she was dressed a little more provocatively each time.”
“As if she was trying to get his attention?”
“She wanted his attention, all right,” McGee replied. “And then some. But when it happened the third time, he knew something strange was going on, and he brought it to my attention.”
“What was strange about it?” Porter asked. “I’ve met him. He’s a big, strong, handsome Marine.”
“He’s big and strong, but he isn’t that handsome. At least he doesn’t think so. Which was why he figured Ritter had a secondary agenda. After all, her boss, Senator Wells, chairs the Senate Intel Committee.”
“And is not a fan of yours.”
McGee shook his head again. “Not by a long shot.”
“So you told your assistant to . . . ?”
“Play along.”
“Meaning sleep with her,” the President said.
“Meaning whatever Cavanagh thought was appropriate,” the CIA Director replied. “If there was something nefarious in the works, you’re damn right I wanted to know about it. I’m a spy. It’s what we do.”
The President smiled. “It’s also why I recommended you for the job.”
“Then you need to believe me. Brendan isn’t the leak. It’s somebody else.”
Once more, Porter asked. “And you’re sure about that?”
McGee nodded. “I hate doing the Sunday shows. You know that. But considering all that had happened, and more importantly because you asked me to, I went.
“On my way out of CBS, Brendan called to tell me we needed to speak ASAP. He had just seen Wells on NBC. Gottlieb had asked him what he knew about a rumor that the White House had advance warning of the attack on Secretary Devon.”
“And where’d Gottlieb get that?”
“Rebecca Ritter fed it to NBC.
“How do you know that?”
“We have someone inside at NBC.”
“A spy?” the President asked, not pleased with the idea of the CIA infiltrating television networks.
McGee shook his head. “A friend. Someone who wants to make sure things are kept fair. When we reached out, this person tracked down where Alan Gottlieb had gotten the question.
“Ritter had fed it to a new producer. Some guy who had just moved down from New York.”
“But if it didn’t come from your man Cavanagh, where’d she get the information?”
“Do you want my professional or my personal opinion?”
“Both,” the President replied.
“Professionally, we have a leak somewhere within the clandestine service. It’s either an employee or someone with direct access to our communications. We’re looking at handful of potentials, but I hope to have an update for you soon.”
“Good,” Porter said. “Now, what’s your personal opinion?”
The CIA Director picked up the picture of Rebecca Ritter and held it out so that the President could see it. “Whoever it is, she’s sleeping with the leaker. Look at her,” he said. “Who wouldn’t tell her whatever she wanted to know?”
CHAPTER 61
MONDAY
NORTHERN SYRIA
Proskurov’s laptop contained a wealth of information. The encrypted files were a treasure trove. When merged with everything Viktor Sergun had revealed in his interrogations in Malta, an amazing picture had come together.
Intelligence, though, was a tricky business. Dots didn’t always connect—and even when they did, they might not mean what even the brightest minds thought they meant.
Was the information on Proskurov’s laptop solid? Had it been vetted? Or was it a trap? There was a lot to digest.
Ultimately, it was Harvath’s call. The President, as well as Bob McGee and the Old Man, had all said they would respect whatever decision he made.
Harvath reflected on how many people had been killed—how many Americans. The operation posed incredible risks, but the potential reward was too good to pass up.
Outside of the sheer danger he faced, his next biggest problem was manpower.
The Hadids were on the CIA’s payroll. They weren’t crazy about it, but they would accompany him. Not so for the rest of their men. The ones from the saltbox assault were not on anyone’s payroll. Harvath had paid them in cash from the shoulder strap of his camera bag. He was now almost out of money.
That was a problem on multiple levels—not the least being that where they were going, the Hadids had absolutely no contacts. And even if they could network their way in, no one was going to risk their lives to help them without being paid, up front, and in cash.
There was only one person Harvath could think of who might help. Taking out his phone, he had dialed Yusuf.
Late the next morning, they met on the outskirts of the city and Harvath introduced the Hadids. As the three Syrians chatted, he examined the vehicle, a white, four-door Toyota Hilux pickup truck.
So common were Toyotas in ISIS-controlled territory that you would have thought that they owned stock in the company. It would help them move a little more freely. All he needed now was the right weapon.
Forty-five minutes later, in a town northeast of Damascus, Harvath handed over nearly the rest of his cash and his camera. In exchange, he was handed a modified 7.62mm Romanian PSL semiautomatic rifle complete with a suppressor that had probably been stolen from the Iraqi Security Forces.
It came with an LPS 4X6+ TIP2 telescopic sight, a Russian NSPUM night scope, and a half-empty box of ammunition.
When Harvath demanded that a carrying case be included in the deal, the old, gnarled rebel arms dealer handed him a black plastic garbage bag. Welcome to war in Syria.
With the rifle purchased, Yusuf drove them north. Mathan sat next to him, while Thoman sat in back with Harvath.
They were headed deep into ISIS territory and the only way for Harvath to make the journey was in disguise.
He wore black gloves and a pitch-black burka. Mathan told him he looked beautiful. Thoman told him he thought the burka made his ass look big.
Harvath told them that if they didn’t shut up, he was going to shoot them both. Yusuf choked backed a laugh, lit another cigarette, and kept driving.
Once they were out of regime-controlled territory, they encountered multiple ISIS checkpoints.
Ever the accomplished smuggler, Yusuf handled them beautifully. Not a single penny changed hands.
He had brought with him his medical records and other important papers. He actually played the cancer card.
He told them he was returning home, to his village near Raqqa, to be with the rest of his family. There was nothing else the hospital in Damascus could do for him. He wanted to die in his own bed, in the house he had grown up in.
None of the ISIS fighters knew how to react. Plenty of people had begged, cajoled, and threatened in order to get out alive. They had never seen anyone, much less such a good, pious Muslim, roll up and politely ask permission to enter their territory in order to die.
It was amazing. And it worked at each of the checkpoints. Not once were they searched. Not once were they asked to get out of their vehicle.
Had they been, Harvath was the most heavily armed. It was astounding how much could be hidden beneath a burka. Then there was the drone shadowing them high overhead.
They had taken the long way. Not by choice but by necessity. By heading for the open desert, they were able to avoid many of the joint Syrian-Russian air patrols. This allowed them to pick up and maintain U.S. drone coverage sooner.
Flying at fifteen thousand feet was a General Atomics Aeronautical Systems MQ-9 Reaper carrying two AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-ground missiles and two AIM-92 Stinger air-to-air missiles in case of any contact with hostile, enemy aircraft.
The last
thing Harvath wanted to do was waste the Hellfires on an ISIS checkpoint. But all the same, it was nice to know they were there, just in case they needed them.
At Tadmur, near the ancient ruins of Palmyra, they stopped, but only Yusuf got out. He purchased food and more bottled water.
Returning with it to the truck, they ate en route to al-Sukhnah, where they topped off with gas and continued on to Dayr az Zawr.
The evidence of a long-drawn-out civil war and insurgency were all around them.
Bombed-out dwellings had been reinhabited by refugees with nowhere else to go. Those fortunate enough reroofed with corrugated metal. The less fortunate used plastic tarps. The completely unfortunate used reeds, pieces of cardboard, and anything else they could scavenge.
The shells of charred, burned-out vehicles littered the shoulders of the road in both directions. As they drove, they were gripped with the quiet fear of possible IEDs, or of being targeted by a regime-aligned fighter.
The road was so badly damaged that had they not had a 4X4, they wouldn’t have made it. Time after time, they were forced to go off-road and traverse long stretches of rock and sand.
Halfway to Raqqa, in the fertile corridor of the Euphrates River, south of where it flows from the Lake Assad reservoir, they stopped.
Just outside al-Kasarah was a small farm where a once-prosperous family grew dates and figs. What was left of the family now struggled just to stay alive.
ISIS had long ago confiscated all of their livestock—their goats, their chickens, even a cow. What ISIS didn’t take, the regime soldiers helped themselves to when they passed through. It was like being subjected to wave after wave of locusts.
Even so, the patriarch had refused to leave his land. He was too proud. His family had farmed here for generations. Conflicts had come and gone. Insha’Allah, they would persevere.
When the pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of his home, he kept his wife and children hidden inside. The ISIS fighters and the regime soldiers were equally cruel and depraved. His family had already suffered too much at their hands.
Stepping outside, the man put his hand over his eyes, to shield them from the sun. His face was creased and weatherbeaten from a life spent out-of-doors. He looked much older than he really was. Squinting, he tried to make out who was in the vehicle.
A white Toyota could be anyone, but it was probably ISIS. They had increased taxes again. No one had anything left to give. Everyone he knew had been bled dry. ISIS didn’t care.
The farmer’s pulse began to quicken. If he didn’t pay, he would be taken away. They would make an example out of him. His public torture—or perhaps even his death—would be used to frighten his kinsmen into paying up.
The thought of not ever seeing his wife or children again gripped his heart. He wished he had hugged them one last time before stepping outside. But how could he have known?
Straightening his crooked spine, Riad Qabbani prepared himself for the worst.
CHAPTER 62
I will speak with him,” said Yusuf. “Okay? No one else. It is better if it is just me.”
Harvath understood. Thoman and Mathan agreed. As Yusuf exited the vehicle to go talk to the old farmer, the twins got out to stretch their legs.
Harvath would have liked to as well, but for their purposes he was a woman. That meant he was relegated to second-class-citizen status. He remained behind in the truck.
It was quiet, even peaceful, here near the Euphrates. Date palms and fig trees hung heavy with fruit. The air was sweet.
The Hadids held their phones up in the air attempting to get a signal while Yusuf spoke to the farmer.
Harvath kept alert, his eyes sweeping back and forth beneath the burka, watching for trouble.
As they drove, he had tracked their position on his phone. He made mental notes of where they were. Damascus was nearly five hundred kilometers behind them. Irbil, via Mosul, was five hundred kilometers northeast. Baghdad was five hundred and sixty kilometers southeast.
They were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by ISIS. There was no cavalry just over the hill, ready to ride to their rescue. All they had was a single drone, high and out of sight.
After five minutes of talking, Yusuf returned to the truck. “We have been invited to tea.”
“All of us?” Harvath asked.
“Yes. You can trust Qabbani.”
Thoman opened the door for him, Harvath stepped out, and they all walked to the small stone house.
The first thing Harvath noticed were how low the ceilings were. The next thing he noticed were all the books. The man had stacks and stacks of them.
There were carpets on the floor and pillows against the wall. The farmer invited his guests to sit down.
Retreating to an adjacent room that must have been the kitchen, he returned several moments later with a large tray. On it was a plate of dates, a plate of figs, and tea. He set it down in the middle of the floor and took a seat.
His face was gaunt and deeply tanned; his eyes sunken. He looked very poorly nourished.
Smiling, the man looked at Harvath and said in English, “It is safe here. You may remove the burka.”
Harvath thanked him and pulled it off. He had no idea how Muslim women could spend all day inside those things.
Folding the garment, he set it on the carpet next to him and accepted a cup of tea.
“How long has it been?” Yusuf asked his old university friend.
“More years than I can remember.”
Qabbani’s English was good. Out of respect for his guest, he refrained from Arabic unless he needed to ask for a particular word.
After a few minutes of polite catching up, they got to the heart of why Yusuf was there.
“The roads are dangerous,” Qabbani stated. “There are checkpoints and patrols. It is not safe for you to go to Ar Raqqah.”
“We’re not traveling to Raqqa,” Harvath said, removing a map. Laying it out on the floor, he pointed to a town halfway there. “This is where we need to go.”
The farmer clucked his tongue against his teeth. “Not safe.”
“But is it possible?” Yusuf asked.
The man thought about it. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“There are rumors about this town. Bad things happen there. People go and do not come back. Not ever.”
Harvath wasn’t surprised. “Are you familiar with it?”
Qabbani nodded.
“Can you help us get there?”
“No.”
“Pardon me?”
“They will kill my family if I help you. I cannot risk this.”
“Is there something you need? Something I could offer you to secure your assistance?” Harvath asked.
Qabbani smiled sadly. “Can you bring peace?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Then I am afraid there is nothing to discuss.”
Harvath took a sip of tea and then, setting the glass down, said, “How many people are in your immediate family?”
“Why do you ask?”
“How many?” Harvath repeated.
“Five. I have one wife and four children.”
“How old are your children?”
“My two boys are twelve and fourteen. My girls are eight and eleven. Why are you asking this?”
Harvath looked at him. “I cannot bring your country peace. But what if I could bring safety to you and your family?”
He definitely had the man’s attention. Leaning forward, Qabbani said, “Tell me how.”
CHAPTER 63
The town of Furat looked like a thousand others Harvath had seen over the course of his career. The houses were square. Many had walled courtyards. They were built of mud brick. Some, usually the two-story homes, were built of co
ncrete block.
The original drone had gone back to refuel. An identical one was now circling high above, providing imagery.
There were four roads into and out of Furat, mimicking the points of a compass. It was an old caravan stop, known for the sweetness of its water, which came from deep, cold wells.
Harvath looked at the overlays from General Proskurov’s computer and compared them to the footage being fed to his phone by the drone. He spotted Baseyev’s house right away. The GRU operative had chosen wisely.
The home was on the edge of the town. It was within walking distance of everything, but secluded enough to be protected if any of the other buildings were targeted in an air strike.
Proskurov had highlighted it on his map. Three old satellite dishes lay faceup, forming a triangle on the roof. Harvath guessed that they had been put there as a marker of some sort. From a Russian fighter jet, spy plane, or satellite, they weren’t difficult to pick out.
Foreseeing the relentless attacks on Aleppo, Raqqa, and Dabiq, ISIS had commandeered part of the town to quietly serve as its new base of operations. That was why the town had developed a reputation for bad things happening and people disappearing. The default position for ISIS when they saw a stranger was that the stranger had to be a spy.
Yusuf had been adamant that if anyone could get them close to Furat, it was Qabbani. And he had been right.
Qabbani’s family had been in the region for generations. They knew every farmer, shepherd, basket weaver, and Quran salesman from here to Aleppo. He had a network of contacts that was second to none.
The man had delivered them to a small property, long abandoned, several kilometers outside of town. Its tiny garden had been swallowed up by sand. The ramshackle, two-room house looked as if it hadn’t had occupants in over a hundred years.
Righting an overturned table, Harvath discovered two scorpions mating. Before he could react, Qabbani had crushed them underfoot.
“Be careful,” he warned. “Where there are two, there are always more.”