Foreign Agent: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  “Russian drone destroyed,” Ryan reported.

  Harvath looked over at Thoman and Mathan. Both men had survived. He then asked Ryan, “What the hell just happened? Why’d the Russians target us?”

  “We didn’t pick up their drone until it went hot. But you’re in the middle of the desert, carrying AKs, and headed toward the border. That’s enough in their book.”

  Murphy. Harvath had a bunch of choice words he wanted to utter, especially about the Russians, but now wasn’t the time. “We’re not going to make it to the extraction point.”

  “Roger that. Stand by.”

  As Ryan reached out to the Joint Special Operations Command for the two stealth helicopters waiting just inside Iraq, Harvath looked again at the Hadids. Thoman was smiling.

  “What are you smiling at?” he asked, not exactly finding any of this amusing.

  Rolling off his stomach, he revealed two pillowcases.

  Harvath then looked at Mathan, who had the third.

  He was just about to smile back when he saw motion back by the crater of where their Land Cruiser used to be.

  Pulling his pistol, he got to his feet and ran toward it. Halfway there, he saw them. Baseyev and Rafael were alive.

  Somehow they had managed to flop like fish out of the Land Cruiser and make it to the embankment. Rolling downhill, they had managed to avoid the blast.

  Slowing his pace, Harvath reholstered his pistol at the small of his back and smiled. Shaking his head, he uttered just one word. “Murphy.”

  CHAPTER 73

  THIRTY-SIX HOURS LATER

  AMMAN-DAMASCUS HIGHWAY

  NASIB BORDER CROSSING

  The CIA’s Reaper and a pair of F-22 Raptors kept Harvath, the Hadids, and their precious cargo covered long enough for the specially modified Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawks to pick them up and whisk them off to the safety of a covert air base in Kurdistan.

  From there, a security team transported Baseyev and Rafael via private jet to Malta. Vellas was waiting in the hangar when they arrived. He had a new interrogation technique he was looking forward to trying out on them once their physicals were complete.

  Williams met Harvath and the Hadids as their jet landed in Amman. While they drove into the city, Harvath double-checked that everything he had asked for was in place.

  They went through the entire list, and when they got to the final item, Williams said, “I had to make a direct appeal to the Ambassador on that.”

  Harvath had requested a sniper, on the Jordanian side, to provide overwatch for what they were about to do. “And?”

  “And it got kicked all the way up to the King.”

  “King Abdullah of Jordan?” Harvath remarked.

  Williams nodded.

  Though he had never met him, Harvath thought very highly of Abdullah. He had been extensively educated in both the United States and Britain. But even more impressive was his military experience. He had not only been a troop commander in the British Army and a tank commander in Jordan’s 91st Armored Brigade, but he was a former general and Jordanian special forces commander who had also been trained to fly Cobra attack helicopters.

  “What did he say?”

  “Officially, the King didn’t say anything. The conversation never took place.”

  “And unofficially?” Harvath asked.

  “He was extremely moved by your story. You’re going to have Jordanian overwatch.”

  It wasn’t Harvath’s story. It was Yusuf’s. And Qabbani’s. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was going to be able to get them and their families out of Syria. He had promised.

  As long as they could get to the border, there was a place for them in the United States. The men had more than earned it.

  Harvath wanted to insert back into Syria to make the journey with all of them, but Yusuf had told him no. It was too risky. He knew the route and he had the little bit of money and the watch Harvath had given him, plus the money he had saved for his treatments, to bribe his way past the checkpoints. Qabbani didn’t have much money, but he would use what he had to bribe his way through too.

  “Just be at the crossing,” Yusuf had said. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” Harvath replied.

  That had been all that Yusuf had needed to hear. He trusted Harvath. If the American said he would be there, Yusuf knew that, Insha’Allah, he would.

  Insha’Allah, Murphy . . . it all came down to powers outside of their hands. Even so, Harvath had no intention of failing the men or their families.

  • • •

  Smiling at the unshaven, armed thug on the Syrian side of the Nasib Border Crossing, Harvath held up his laminated press credential along with his phony Canadian passport and said, “Journalist.”

  He knew the man remembered him. And judging by the look on his face, he was wondering what he was doing back so soon.

  Williams, who was sitting in the passenger seat next to Harvath, held up his press credential to the thugs on his side and said, “Cameraman.”

  You would have thought someone had just dropped hot coals down their fatigues. Like a bunch of chimpanzees, they began waving their arms and hopping up and down in unison, as several of them yelled for their commander.

  “Come on out, motherfucker,” Harvath whispered beneath his breath.

  Right on cue, the man stepped out of the crumbling building. He was even uglier than last time. His brown, leathery face that was crisscrossed with scars seemed drawn even tighter. His mustache was so dark it looked like it was dyed with black paint.

  With his right hand on the leather holster at his hip, he raised his left hand and gave it one quick jerk. The message was clear. Come forward for an “inspection.”

  As Harvath inched the windowless van forward, Williams tapped the wall behind his seat with three quick raps.

  Pulling into the inspection area, Harvath brought the vehicle to a halt, but left it in gear. They had disconnected the brake lights back in Amman.

  The moment they stopped, they were surrounded. The armed men yelled for them to get out of the car. They began pulling on the door handles but couldn’t get them open. Reaching inside, they tried to activate the locking buttons, but that didn’t work either.

  Instantly, the van looked like a porcupine that had been turned inside out as countess rifle barrels were shoved through the driver- and passenger-side windows.

  The men continued to yell for the men to open up until Harvath raised a thick, sealed envelope and moved it back and forth in front of the windshield so that the commander could see it.

  He barked at his men and they backed off, removing their rifle barrels from the windows.

  Stepping off the curb, he walked slowly toward the van. He had the haughty air of a petty despot. A man who, given a modicum of power, had decided to abuse it and lord it over all those unlucky enough to cross his path. He was a bully, a shakedown artist, a tyrant. He was the kind of man Harvath abhorred.

  Sidling up to the van, the commander kept one hand on his holstered pistol. With the other, he played with his oily mustache.

  “Monnee, monnee,” he said, leaning in the window, looking at the envelope sitting in the cup holder.

  “Journalist,” Harvath said, just to be difficult as he pointed at the credential hanging around his neck.

  Williams, not satisfied to let Harvath have all the fun, echoed him.

  “Monnee!” he snapped in his terrible English. “Monnee now!”

  “No money,” Harvath replied, pointing at the highway. “Just go.”

  The commander, unaware that they were screwing with him, was confused. The journalist had waved an envelope at him. And it had been a thick one at that.

  “Monnee!” he growled, pulling his pistol. It was an old, piece-of-shit Russian Tokarev. They were notorious for dischargin
g accidentally. Anyone who knew anything about guns never carried one with a round chambered. Hell, anyone who knew anything about guns didn’t carry a Tokarev, period. But that was another story.

  “We might as well get this over with,” Harvath said as he reached for the envelope and handed it over.

  The commander took a step back, and with the Tokarev still in his right hand, ripped open the top of the envelope.

  By the time he noticed he’d been had and it was only filled with newspaper, Harvath and Williams had begun shooting.

  With his left hand, Harvath drew his pistol from the driver’s-side door pocket. Applying pressure to the trigger, he began firing as soon as he cleared the frame.

  Five rounds slammed into the commander. Harvath had zipped him up from his stomach to his face in less than two seconds. Before the last shot had even been fired, he had punched the accelerator.

  As he did, both doors in the cargo area were thrown open and the Hadids, armed with fully automatic, belt-fed weapons, began firing at anything carrying a rifle. Every single thug ran for cover.

  Harvath pulled a hard left and gave chase. It was an absolute bloodbath. In less than two minutes, they had mowed down over fourteen men.

  Bringing the van to a stop back underneath the concrete canopy, Harvath could hear hot brass shell casings hitting the ground as the Hadids kicked them out of the cargo area.

  He was about to compliment everyone when he saw six .50-caliber mounted technicals racing at them from a half-demolished building a mile back from the border crossing.

  “This isn’t good,” he said, pointing toward the incoming vehicles.

  Williams smiled. “Get out of the van.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to want to see this,” he replied. “Get out of the van.”

  Harvath thought he was insane, but he gave in and hopped out. Williams and the Hadids joined him.

  “What the hell are we doing?” Thoman asked.

  “Just watch,” said Williams.

  They stood there, watching, but all Harvath noticed was the vehicles getting closer and closer. They were already in range. In fact, as if they were reading his mind, the gunner in the bed of the lead vehicle began firing.

  Harvath, Williams, and the Hadids were forced to lunge for cover. Pieces of the concrete canopy rained down on top of them.

  “What the hell are we doing?” Harvath demanded.

  “It’s coming. Watch!” Williams yelled over the gunfire.

  From back on the Jordanian side of the border there was what sounded like intense, incredibly loud thunder. Harvath and his team whipped their heads in its direction.

  As they did, they saw one of the heavily fortified Jordanian traffic gates spring open and a sleek Cobra attack helicopter come flying out.

  No sooner had it cleared the Jordanian side, than its two 7.62mm minigun pods roared to life and began chewing through the approaching technicals.

  The Hadids cheered and pumped their fists in the air.

  With the first two vehicles disabled, the others realized they were in trouble and attempted to turn around and head back. That was when the Cobra switched to its 70mm rockets.

  One after another, the machine gun–mounted pickups and their crews were taken out. It was an incredible thing to watch.

  As soon as the job was complete, the Cobra disappeared.

  Harvath was beyond impressed. It had been an absolutely overwhelming show of force—something right up his alley. The Jordanians were amazing.

  They stood there for several moments before Harvath looked at Williams and said, “Unbelievable. I hope someone lets King Abdullah know how awesome his pilots are.”

  Williams smiled back. “No one needs to let him know. That actually was Abdullah.”

  As a Jordanian team raced across to help them sanitize the scene, Harvath took out his phone to call Yusuf, who was waiting with his family and Qabbani’s ten kilometers up the highway.

  The border crossing was safe. He would be waiting for him on the other side. There would be no armed thugs to harass him at the checkpoint.

  CHAPTER 74

  CAPITAL HILL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Senator Daniel Wells leaned forward and studied the man on the other side of his desk. “Did I stutter?” he asked.

  “No,” the Director of Central Intelligence replied. “You did not.”

  “Was I speaking in a foreign language?”

  Bob McGee rolled his eyes. He’d had it with the arrogant, condescending senator from Iowa. “Let’s cut the crap.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Your agency, Director McGee, launched not one, not two, but three drone strikes inside Syria. While two of those strikes, allegedly, took out the social media capabilities of ISIS and killed many high-ranking ISIS members, including a handful from the Caucasus, you also downed a Russian drone, and diverted DoD assets including one drone and two stealth helicopters from the Iraq theater into Syria. How would you characterize your agency’s actions?”

  McGee looked at him. “I’d say we had a pretty damn good day.”

  “Excuse me?” the Senator replied.

  “You heard me. Or did I stutter? Perhaps I’m speaking a foreign language.”

  Wells was instantly enraged. “That’s it. You and I are done. For over a week, I have been waiting for an in-person update from you. Now that you finally deign to come to my office, this is how you handle yourself?

  “I warned you what would happen if you chose to be a smartass. You’re a shitty Director of Central Intelligence. You and your agency are now going to pay the price. You’re through. Do you understand me? It’s over. You’re over.”

  McGee waited for the man to stop bloviating. Once he had, the DCI looked at him and said, “Now you listen to me, Dan.”

  The remark immediately got Wells’s hackles up. He was about to shoot McGee the How dare you? Call me Senator! look when McGee froze him in place with one of his own.

  “You and I are through, all right,” the CIA Director continued. “But I’m not going anywhere—you are.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  McGee pretended to look around. “I didn’t see your Chief of Staff when I came in.”

  “She has taken a couple of personal days off.”

  “That’s what you think. The FBI arrested her two days ago at the Hay-Adams Hotel.”

  Wells couldn’t believe it. “Rebecca was arrested? For what?”

  “It will all be in the Washington Post tomorrow. Lilliana Grace is doing the story. I believe you two know each other.”

  At that remark, the Senator went right into defense mode. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t, Dan.”

  Wells seethed at McGee’s continued use of his first name. “Not only is your chairmanship of the Intelligence Committee at an end,” McGee continued, “but so is any hope you ever had of running for the White House. In fact, I’d be surprised if you could even get elected dogcatcher after this is all over.”

  “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The Director of Central Intelligence leaned back in his chair. “Your Chief of Staff, Rebecca Ritter, is a spy for the Russians.”

  The Senator was speechless.

  “A search warrant has been issued not only for her apartment but also for your office and all of your communications together.”

  Wells wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Collecting himself, he said the first thing that came to his mind. “You represent the Central Intelligence Agency. Under the Constitution, you have no authority to serve any warrant.”

  McGee smiled. “You’re right, I don’t.”

  But as soon as he had said the words, the int
ercom on the Senator’s phone chimed.

  “Senator Wells?” the secretary in the outer office intoned. “The Director of the FBI is here to see you.”

  EPILOGUE

  ONE MONTH LATER

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Harvath poured two beers into a Yeti tumbler and stepped out onto his patio.

  “What are you doing?” Lara called from somewhere inside.

  “Union coffee break,” he called back. “Twenty minutes.”

  Moving a chair over to the railing, he sat down. From here he could see the Charles River below.

  That had been his only request—something quiet, near the water.

  The “quiet” part had immediately ruled out Boston Harbor. The area was fun, but too busy for his taste. When he was home, he wanted to relax.

  The realtor was a friend of Lara’s and had found him the perfect place. It was older, but it had character and had been well maintained. There were two bedrooms with a loft above the kitchen.

  The minute Lara’s son, Marco, had seen the loft, he clambered right up the ladder and declared the space “his.” That was all it had taken for Harvath. He signed the lease that night.

  Lara had offered to fly down to Virginia and help him move, but he knew how busy she was. Besides, he needed time alone. There was a lot to think about.

  Yusuf, Qabbani, and their families had been interviewed and processed at the U.S. Embassy in Amman. When everything was in order, they were flown to Baltimore to begin their new lives in the United States.

  Two Arabic-speaking families from the State Department had volunteered to help work with them and ease their transition. Yusuf had been immediately admitted to the Sidney Kimmel Comprehensive Cancer Center at Johns Hopkins. His prognosis was not good.

  His medical team, though, was determined. And it was quietly understood throughout the hospital that Yusuf was an important man, someone the United States thought very highly of. Everything that could be done for him would be.