by Brad Thor
Lavrov raised good points. “Tell me about the third man,” said Ralston.
“His name is Yaroslav Yatsko. Former Russian FSB and current Russian organized crime figure here in Los Angeles.”
“What was his position with the FSB?”
“He was with the First Chief Directorate of the KGB, actually. He specialized in foreign espionage and stayed on through the transition from KGB to FSB. From what I understand, he continued with foreign espionage activities before moving to California.”
Ralston had to wonder what the hell was wrong with the American government that they let these kinds of people into the United States. “What’s he doing now? What kinds of things is he involved with?”
Lavrov shrugged. “Extortion, stock fraud, antiquities scams, identity theft, credit card fraud, money laundering, counterfeiting, human trafficking from Mexico, arms dealing, and film piracy. Take your pick.”
“What about murder for hire?”
“Violence and murder are the sine quibus non of Russian organized crime,” offered Sevan. “Without those two ingredients, there would be no Russian organized crime.”
“Yaroslav Yatsko,” said Lavrov, “keeps a very quiet, low profile. He hides behind multiple legitimate businesses in order to justify his income and comfortable lifestyle.”
“But is he known to carry out murders for hire?” repeated Ralston.
“Specifically? No. But it is rumored throughout the community that he has facilitated several high-profile assassinations in Mexico. Allegedly, he has carried these attacks out on behalf of warring cartels, politicians, and business leaders.”
“That’s Mexico. I’m talking about here. What about in the U.S.?”
Lavrov shook his head.
“Then I’ll want the address of that nursing home, too. It looks like I’m going to be busy.”
“That might not be necessary,” replied Sevan.
“Why not?”
“Because of the Mexico rumors,” said Lavrov.
“What about them?”
“Most of the victims had exceptional security. They had bodyguards, alarm systems, dogs; all of the things you would expect of the wealthy and powerful, especially in a Third World country like Mexico. Supposedly, that is Yaroslav Yatsko’s claim to fame. He can get around anyone’s security.”
“And how did he do that?”
“By eschewing local talent and bringing in his own people from Russia,” said Lavrov. “He is known for only using the best. He only hires Spetsnaz.”
CHAPTER 41
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
If his cell phone hadn’t rung, Harvath could have easily slept another several hours. Fumbling for the device on his nightstand, he activated the call and brought the phone to his ear. “Harvath,” he said, looking for his watch to see what time it was.
“Scot?” asked a woman’s voice on the other end. “It’s Riley. Did I wake you up?”
“No,” he lied, sitting up in bed and trying to focus. “I’m still trying to beat back the jet lag. What’s up?”
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For Massachusetts.”
Harvath knew who she was talking about, but not what. “I don’t understand.”
“His condition. Remember when I told you the Tasers weren’t designed for what you wanted to do?” she said.
“But it worked.”
“It did, but I thought it was just dumb luck, or maybe the hand of God, I don’t know, but I wasn’t ready to believe you could restart someone’s heart with a Taser-no matter how many times you zapped him. Well, we’ve been running tests here and it turns out that our patient has something called WPW or Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome. It has to do with having an extra, abnormal electrical pathway in the heart. Symptoms often don’t appear until people are in their teens or early twenties. It can cause rapid heartbeat and in more serious cases sudden death.”
“So what’s his prognosis?”
“We’ve performed a catheter-based procedure known as ablation. It should correct the problem.”
“That’s great news,” said Harvath, and he meant it. They were overdue. “Does he have any brain damage?”
“Not so far as we can tell.”
“When will you be able to restart the interrogations?”
“Soon,” she replied.
“How’s Chase?”
“All things considered, pretty good. The bullet did chip his humerus, though.”
“Impossible, Chase doesn’t have a humorous bone in his body.”
“Very funny.”
Harvath liked flirting with her and could picture her rolling her eyes. “He’s going to live, though, right?”
“First, this wasn’t a life-threatening injury,” said Riley. “In fact, I think your duct tape field dressing posed more of a risk to him than anything else.”
“Most doctors think my duct tape bandages are cool.”
“Those doctors probably had nurses to assist them. Your duct tape idea may be clever, but it’s a pain to remove, especially for the patient.”
“He’s a big boy, trust me. He tells me all the time. You didn’t hurt him.”
“You asked about his injury,” she replied, trying to steer the conversation back to where it had been. “There appears to be a little wrist drop due to some radial nerve injury, but if he does the requisite physical therapy, everything should be fine.”
“What do you mean by wrist drop?”
Riley took a breath and then said, “He’s a bit limp-wristed.”
Harvath laughed. “Please tell me that’s how you’ll write it up for his medical file.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Yeah, it is. That file follows you for life.”
She ignored him. “Anyway, I thought you’d want the update.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you.”
“I guess that’s it, then.”
Harvath was picturing her in his mind and didn’t want to let her go just yet. He liked the sound of her voice. “Who’s going to head up the interrogation once it gets started?” he asked, hoping to extend their conversation a little bit longer.
“I haven’t seen them yet,” said Riley, “but apparently the Agency flew in a couple of specialists last night. They’re ready to go as soon as the medical team gives the all-clear.”
“They’re good people. Some of the best. They’ll do a good job.”
“They couldn’t be any worse,” she said.
“Than who?” asked Harvath.
“Chase.”
“Chase? What are you talking about?” asked Harvath. “He tried to start the interrogation already?”
“No, but he asked if I had access to ketamine.”
“Horse tranquilizer?”
“That’s one of its uses. In humans it’s highly hallucinogenic. Chase showed me a pair of special-effects contact lenses he had with him that could make a person’s eyes look like the devil. He wanted to pump the patient full of ketamine and freak the hell out of him in hopes of getting him to talk.”
Harvath laughed again. “I guess that’s one way of doing it.”
“You would actually endorse that kind of thing?”
“For some backwater Taliban member living in a cave in Waziristan, maybe, but not for this patient. I think Chase was just pulling your leg.”
“I might be inclined to believe you if he didn’t actually own a pair of those contacts,” replied Riley.
“He’s young and aggressive. He’ll learn.”
“In the meantime, I’m not letting him near the ketamine.”
“Probably a good idea,” said Harvath, who sensed their conversation was winding down.
“I’ve got to get back. I’ll call you if I learn anything new.”
“I appreciate it. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”
“Sure thing,” she replied. “Stay safe.”
“You, too,” he answered and then disconnected the call and set t
he phone back on his nightstand.
She didn’t have to call him. She could have had the Old Man or even Chase do it. He was glad that she had contacted him personally.
Harvath sat there propped up in bed and debated whether he should try to grab some more sleep. Though the quality of what he’d been able to get so far was marginal at best, he’d still been out for ten hours. What he needed now was some exercise.
Getting out of bed, he got dressed in a pair of shorts and an Atomic Dog T-shirt. A creature of habit, he tucked a loaded Taurus 9mm Slim semiautomatic into a belly band and headed downstairs.
He bypassed the coffeemaker and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. After hydrating, he pulled on his running shoes and stepped outside. It was a perfect day, sunny and with a light breeze.
His house was a small, renovated eighteenth-century stone church known as Bishop’s Gate that stood on several acres of land overlooking the Potomac River, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate. During the Revolutionary War, the Anglican reverend of Bishop’s Gate had been an outspoken loyalist who had provided sanctuary and aid to British spies. As a result, the colonial army had attacked the church, inflicting grave damage.
It lay in ruins until 1882, when the Office of Naval Intelligence, or ONI, was established to seek out and report on the enormous post-Civil War explosion in technological capabilities of other foreign navies. Several covert ONI agent training centers were established up and down the eastern seaboard to instruct Naval attaches and military affairs officers on the collection of intelligence and the finer aspects of espionage.
Because of its isolated yet prime location not far from Washington, D.C., Bishop’s Gate was secretly rebuilt and became the ONI’s first covert officer training school. As the oldest continuously operating intelligence service in the nation, the ONI eventually outgrew Bishop’s Gate. The stubby yet elegant church with its stone rectory was relegated to “mothball” status.
The Navy had many such properties in its inventory, but the majority of those suitable for use as dwellings were reserved for high-level defectors and other displaced political personages the United States government found itself responsible for.
Regardless of a property’s status, if it fell within the U.S. Navy’s portfolio, the U.S. Navy was responsible for maintaining it. With so many properties to look after, maintenance and carrying costs were quite high. This, coupled with the fact that Harvath, a U.S. Navy SEAL, had shown exemplary service to the nation, played a large role in the secretary of the Navy’s agreeing to a special arrangement suggested by the former president of the United States.
The church building and the attached rectory, which had been converted into a nice-sized house, came to more than four thousand square feet of living space. Those structures, along with a garage, an outbuilding, and the extensive grounds of Bishop’s Gate, had been deeded to Harvath in a ninety-nine-year lease. Per the lease he was to pay a token rent of one U.S. dollar per annum. All that was required of him was that he maintain the property in a manner befitting its historic status and that he vacate the premises within twenty-four hours if ever given notice, with or without cause, by the United States Navy.
While Harvath had gone above and beyond for the president, he had still been stunned to be extended such a generous offer.
On his first visit, while exploring the rectory attic, he found a beautifully hand-carved piece of wood. Upon it was the motto of the Anglican missionaries. It seemed strangely fitting for the career Harvath had pursued. TRANSIENS ADIUVANOS, it read. I go overseas to give help. At that moment, he had known he was home.
That was several years ago, and now he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
Standing on his front steps, he stretched each of his legs. He had decided on a short run, just up to Mount Vernon and back. Once his muscles were warm, he started his jog.
Exercise always had a way of clearing his head and making him feel more energized. Today was no exception. He didn’t think about work at all. He thought about the things he needed to get done around his house. He thought about getting out on the Potomac and doing a little sailing. He also thought about what kind of ruse he could run to get Riley Turner to D.C. for a visit.
A few miles later, at the entrance to Mount Vernon, he turned around, picked up his pace, and ran back. When he returned to the bottom of his driveway, he stopped and walked the rest of the way to the house, allowing his body to cool down. It had been a good workout and the endorphins were racing through his body.
Passing through the kitchen, he ignored the coffee machine again and headed upstairs for a quick shower. When he was finished, he threw the temperature selector to the coldest setting and forced himself to remain under the ice-cold water for a full thirty seconds. It was better than three shots of espresso.
He toweled off and shaved at the sink. When he was done shaving, he walked into his bedroom and grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt from his closet. It had been a while since he’d had time all to himself to do whatever he wanted. The last couple of months had been a blur.
Because it was Saturday, there were plenty of people Harvath could have called to meet for drinks, but traffic in and out of D.C. would be a nightmare. He also had a policy of not going out for the first couple of nights after getting back from an operation. He knew himself well enough to know that he might feel good now, but in an hour or two he could be ready to crash again. He’d be better company on another night. Besides, sometimes he enjoyed spending the evening alone.
With his fridge all but empty, cooking wasn’t an option. Grabbing his keys, he headed outside and hopped into his truck.
Twenty minutes and two stops later, he had returned with a six-pack of beer and a bag of barbecue from Johnny Mac’s Rib Shack.
Parking the car, he breezed through the house long enough to drop four of the beers in the fridge, kick off his shoes, and grab a roll of paper towels before heading down to his dock.
It was officially fall, but northern Virginia was enjoying a nice Indian summer. Having been on the road so much, Harvath was grateful to be enjoying at least a small piece of it.
Walking to the end of his pier, he sat down and leaned against one of the posts. Out on the water, there were plenty of boaters getting a head start on their weekend and enjoying what was left of the quickly fading daylight.
Harvath opened one of the beers and took a long sip. He’d made the right choice by staying in tonight. Right now, there wasn’t any place he’d rather be than sitting right there looking out over the Potomac. No matter how often he traveled or how long he was gone, when he thought about home, this was what he thought about, a couple of beers and his pier. This was the one place in the world where he always felt the most relaxed. It was the one place where he seemed to be able to leave his problems, at least most of them, back on the shore.
Taking another drink, he watched as a boat passed by, pulling a young skier in a wetsuit. Inside the boat, Mom, Dad, and a sibling cheered. Harvath smiled. It reminded him not only of why he did what he did, but also of what he hoped to have for himself at some point in time.
Reaching into his bag from Johnny Mac’s, he pulled out a barbecued pork sandwich and tore a paper towel from the roll. As he watched the sky begin to turn orange, he figured the evening was just about perfect. The only thing that could have made it better was having someone else there to share it with him. For the moment, he was happy to take what he had been given. He knew all too well that perfect moments had a way of getting shattered.
CHAPTER 42
DES MOINES, IOWA
The Century Theater multiplex in Jordan Creek was the perfect place to see your very first movie. They had twenty screens, stadium seating, an arcade area, and even ice cream at the concession counter. Mike Bentley smiled at his wife, Shannon, as their five-year-old twins grabbed their hands and pulled them through the parking lot in hopes of speeding up their parents’ pace.
“Mom, you’re too slow,” com
plained Trevor.
“C’mon, Dad,” said Tyler. “C’mon!”
Just to drive the boys nuts, Mike pretended he had pulled a hamstring and began to limp. The twins cried out in protest. Mike teased them a moment more and then gave in and the family increased their pace.
The closest the twins had ever been to a movie theater was the DVD player in the back of Shannon’s minivan. Tonight would be their first real movie theater experience.
It was opening weekend for a new animated family movie that Mike and Shannon had heard great things about. They had read all of the books in the series to the boys and decided this would be the perfect first film experience for them. Mike, an Iowa state trooper, had even arranged to have the night off so they could all go together. Shannon had suggested that maybe an afternoon matinee would be better, but the boys had insisted that nobody goes to movies in the daytime. “If you want to see a real movie,” they had said, “you have to go when it’s dark.” In the face of such wonderful child logic, Shannon found she couldn’t say no.
The boys had taken a nap that afternoon, and when they came down from their room, their mother and father were bowled over to see that they had dressed up for their evening out. They wore matching khaki trousers, blue blazers, white button-down shirts, and matching, striped clip-on ties. It was so incredibly sweet that Shannon had trouble keeping herself together. Even sweeter was that the boys insisted that their parents get dressed up for the big event as well.
Mike and Shannon complied. When everyone was ready to go, they piled into the minivan and drove to Pizza Hut, the boys’ favorite restaurant, for dinner. Everyone commented on how handsome the boys looked. Mike and Shannon were very proud. According to his wife, Mike was actually beaming at one point.
Trevor and Tyler did a great job of not spilling anything on their nice outfits and actually passed on dessert in order to save room for popcorn at the theater.
After paying for the tickets, Mike handed one to each of their sons and allowed them to hand them to the ticket taker, who tore them in half and guided the family to theater number six.