Foreign Agent (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

S
UNDAY

V
IENNA
, A
USTRIA

S
cot Harvath wasn’t trying to hide. He expected to be seen. That was the plan. Be brief. Be bloody. Be gone.

There would be handwringing by the Austrians, of course. But the politics of the assignment weren’t his concern.

The White House had been crystal clear. Either the Europeans dealt with their problem, or the United States would.

Harvath sat in a corner of the Café Hawelka. A suppressed Beretta rested beneath a newspaper in his lap. Art posters covered the faded walls. The place smelled like chocolate and stale cigarettes.

Taking a final sip of his coffee, he stood and set the newspaper on the table.

His target was sitting with another man, near the window. Both were in their early thirties. Neither looked up.

Approaching the table, Harvath said only, “Paris.” Then, placing the suppressor under the man’s jaw, pulled the trigger.

Even though the Beretta was suppressed, the shot was still audible, and the man’s brains splattered across the café window were extremely visible.

Patrons screamed and knocked over tables and chairs in a rush to escape. Others sat frozen, either in shock, or out of self-preservation—hoping not to attract the shooter’s attention.

The CIA Director wanted a Rembrandt—
big, bold, and unmistakable.
Harvath had delivered.

Exiting via the rear of the café, he took off his cap, disassembled the weapon, and slid everything into his pockets.

Six blocks away, he walked into the Hotel Sacher. Tipping the coat check girl, he reclaimed his overcoat and shopping bags. He then used the men’s room to clean up and change clothes.

He stood at the sink and washed his hands. There would be multiple descriptions of him given to police. None of them would be accurate. The bystanders had been transfixed by the violence and the speed at which it had happened.

His waiter would remember only that he was a white male, maybe in his thirties, who had quietly placed his order in German.

If they were able to track him all the way to the Hotel Sacher, the coat check girl might describe him as handsome. He doubted that she’d be able to add, “Five-foot-ten, sandy-brown hair, and blue eyes,” to her description. Either way, he’d already be gone.

Outside the hotel, he had the doorman hail him a cab for the main train station. There, he laid a false trail by purchasing a ticket for Klagenfurt, a village near the border.

Exiting the station, he walked a few blocks to a nearby U-Bahn platform and hopped on the subway for six stops.

He poked around an obscure Vienna neighborhood for twenty minutes, then found a cab to take him to Ristorante Va Bene near the river. Confident no one was following him, he sat outside and had a beer.

He was cutting it close. The ship would be leaving soon. He needed that beer, though.

More than the beer, it was the five minutes of quiet he needed. Five minutes to get his head out of one game and into the next.

He hadn’t run an operation this way before. Trying to serve two masters was never a good idea. It didn’t matter how smart you were. You were begging for something to go wrong. And when things started going wrong, mistakes started piling up, along with the bodies.

He looked down at his watch.
So much for five minutes of peace
. Pulling some cash from his pocket, he threw back the rest of the beer, paid his bill, and left.

It was just over a mile to the Port of Vienna. Along the way, he tossed the Beretta and then the suppressor into the Danube.

He retrieved the Ziploc bag he had taped beneath a Dumpster with his passport, key card, and other personal effects. Putting everything back
in his pockets, he ran one more mental check as he patted himself down. He didn’t want to get caught with anything tying him to what had happened at the café.

Stepping onto the ship’s gangway, he presented his embarkment card and smiled at the crew. They put his shopping bags onto the belt of the X-ray machine and had him walk through the magnetometer.

In the four days he had been on the ship, he had noticed a hundred ways a terrorist or other bad actor could wreak havoc. None of them involved sneaking something through the magnetometer or the X-ray machine.

Receiving the “all clear,” the crew handed him his items and welcomed him back aboard. One cheerful staffer began to ask if he had enjoyed his time ashore, but he was halfway across the lobby before she could finish.

Arriving at his stateroom, he paused at the door and listened.
Nothing
. Fishing out his key card, he let himself in.

It was dark. He began to reach for the light, but stopped himself. The sliding glass door was open. A figure was standing on his balcony.

CHAPTER 4

H
arvath had known this was coming. He didn’t want it, but it was inevitable. Dropping the bags on the couch, he walked out onto the balcony.

Lara Cordero was leaning against the rail with a glass of champagne in her hand. Her tight dress clung to her stunning body as a faint breeze moved her long, brown hair. She could have been a model for the cruise line. She looked gorgeous.

“How’d it go?” she asked, gazing across the Danube.

He hadn’t told her what he was doing, but she wasn’t stupid. He had been bombarded with calls and emails since they had arrived in Europe. He was also carrying a smartphone she had never seen before. She knew enough about him to put two and two together.

He had promised her a vacation last fall, right before a megalomaniac at the United Nations engineered a devastating, global pandemic. While it burned itself out, he and Lara had taken refuge in Alaska. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t exactly the getaway either of them had envisioned. A cruise along the Danube was much more like it—at least for Lara. Harvath had a secondary agenda, and that’s why he had suggested it.

Islamic terrorism had exploded in Europe. Americans had been killed. The United States had been unequivocal about what it expected its European allies to do. It was time for the gloves to come off. They were at war.

The terrorists hid among the very people they were slaughtering. They used the freedom and openness of the West to strike at soft targets
like churches, cafés, restaurants, bars, transit centers, tourist attractions, sporting events, concerts, movie theaters, and schools.

They were not legitimate combatants. They were savages. To expect any mercy from the nations upon whom they preyed was the height of insanity. They respected one thing and one thing only—force.

Abubakar al-Shishani was responsible for a string of terror attacks in Paris that had killed multiple Americans. The fact that he moved about so openly in Vienna showed how little he feared any reprisal. Harvath had taken care of that, though.

It was meant to be a message to the rest of them. If they killed Americans, America would kill them. It didn’t matter where they were, or how long it took. Harvath was happy to be the messenger.

Moving in and out of Vienna via boat was too good an opportunity for Harvath to pass up. The cruise provided him with the perfect cover. It also provided him with a chance to have his cake and eat it too.

He and Lara were at a crossroads. They needed the vacation, but they needed it in order to sort out what was going to happen next.

The pandemic, though short-lived, had been brutal. It seemed everyone knew someone who had been impacted. That included Lara. Two of her superiors had succumbed. And because of it, she had been offered an amazing promotion.

The Boston Police Department wanted to elevate her from homicide detective to commander of the entire unit.

It was an incredible opportunity. But it meant she would have to remain in Boston.

In the hope that she might relocate, Harvath had been reaching out to his contacts in and around D.C. They were all feeling a similar pinch. They had lost exceptional people, but wanted to promote from within. The chance Lara was being offered wasn’t going to be matched anywhere else.

Although it killed him to admit it, it was the best decision she could make. He respected her sense of loyalty to a department that had always had her back, and to a city that she loved.

There were other factors at play as well. Her aging parents lived in the apartment right beneath hers. They were too old to leave Boston and start over. All of their friends were there. They were a tight family. The idea of
Lara’s son growing up in Virginia without his grandparents just downstairs also didn’t sit well. If they couldn’t make the move together, she didn’t want to make the move at all.

Harvath understood. He loved her enough to want what was best for her—to accept the promotion. He also loved her enough to want their last trip together to be special.

His moving to Boston was pretty much a nonstarter. He couldn’t do his job long-distance. The CIA had him under contract now and the President demanded a lot of face time. With the country’s aggressive new stance on terrorism, he was only going to get busier.

It wasn’t an easy conclusion to come to. Ten years from now, or maybe even just five, his thinking might have been different. But not now, not at this moment. Too much was at stake.

The world was growing more dangerous. Some derided the American Dream. Not Harvath. He knew that the American Dream couldn’t survive without people willing to protect it. He had always put the country ahead of himself. He had done it as a SEAL, and had continued to do it in a variety of capacities ever since. That wasn’t going to stop, no matter how much it personally pained or cost him.

Right after Paris, he’d had a conversation with the President. In it, he shared his theory that there were wolves and then there were sheep. In order to protect the sheep, the nation needed sheepdogs, and that’s how he saw himself.

The President thought about it for several moments before sharing his own view. Yes, the United States needed its sheepdogs, but it also needed wolf hunters. That was how the President saw Harvath best helping to protect the sheep.

“We’re not going to wait for the wolves to come to us,” he had said. “We’re going to go to them, where they live, where they eat, where they sleep. We’ll hunt them with a ferocity the likes of which they have never seen. If they so much as look in our direction, we will take them out.”

It was one of the most powerful statements Harvath had ever heard. It hadn’t been made for the cameras or to score political points. It was the man’s core ideological belief. And it only served to deepen Harvath’s respect for him.

Take off the chains and let us go do our jobs.
It was a statement made over and over again by spies and Special Operations personnel. Now Harvath was getting his chance. He didn’t intend to let it slip by.

Pulling the cold bottle of champagne from the bucket, he poured himself a glass.

“Can we at least enjoy Budapest together tomorrow before we have to fly home?” she asked, still facing out toward the river.

He walked over and wrapped his arms around her. Kissing the back of her neck, he was about to respond when his phone vibrated.

CHAPTER 5

M
ONDAY

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

S
enator Daniel Wells leaned forward and studied the man on the other side of his desk. “Did I stutter?” he asked. His jacket hung on the back of his chair and his sleeves were rolled up.

“No, sir,” replied his guest.

“Was I speaking in a foreign language?”

“No, sir,” the man repeated, in a frustrated tone, tired of the condescension from the arrogant Iowa senator. He was the worst kind of politician. Even in the aftermath of the pandemic, he was all about furthering his own agenda.

“Thirteen Americans are dead.
Thirteen,
” Wells barked. “And you don’t have a fucking clue what happened? Not one piece of information?”

“Sir, if I could just—”

Wells cut him off. “Stop calling me
sir
. I am a United States Senator.”

“Yes, Senator. I didn’t mean to—”

Wells ignored him and plowed on. “It’s your duty, as Director of the CIA, to keep my committee informed.”

“We’re still trying to unpack what happened.”

“Let’s start with what the hell you were doing in Anbar.”

Their conversation was drifting into dangerous territory. Bob McGee chose his words carefully. “Looking for high-ranking ISIS figures.”

“You deployed a six-man SAD team to the Syrian border, along with heavily armed, multimillion-dollar covert aviation assets, just to look around?”

The CIA Director nodded. He was in his late fifties, with wavy salt-and-pepper hair and a thick mustache.

“You’re full of shit. That’s why we have a drone program. What were you really doing there?”

“Senator, as I said, looking for high-ranking ISIS figures.”

Wells glared at him. He was getting nowhere. “And the collection management officer? What about her? What was
she
doing there?”

They were officially in dangerous territory now. Nevertheless, McGee decided to give him a straight answer, “I don’t know why Ashleigh Foster was there.”

“Bullshit.”

“Senator, you have my word that—”

“What about the other two?” Wells interrupted. “The two additional women from the Embassy?”

The CIA Director shook his head. “We’re still not sure.”

Wells glared at him. “What about the video? Have you even seen it?”

McGee was tempted to glare right back at him.
Had he seen it?
Of course he had. The whole world had seen it by now. ISIS had wasted no time in putting it out. It was beyond barbaric.

The women had been made to do unspeakable things with the body parts of the deceased SAD members. They were then brutally raped and tortured before being murdered. One could even be heard crying for her father to come save her. Even for a group as depraved as ISIS, it was sickening.

“Savages,” said McGee, acknowledging that he had indeed seen it.

“Can you imagine what the families are going through?”

“I can’t possibly—”

“You’re damn right you can’t,” Wells broke in. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but as far as I’m concerned, the CIA is fully responsible for the deaths of those Americans.”

McGee could see where this was going now. Wells hated the Agency. He was going to hang everything on Langley, if not on him personally.

The Senator was a petty, vindictive man who had done everything in his power to block McGee’s confirmation. He had never thought him a good choice for director. He had wanted someone with more political skin in the game, a careerist he could manipulate.

But that was precisely why the President had selected McGee. He wasn’t seen as an “insider.” He didn’t play the game. He had a long his
tory at the CIA, but on the ops side, not management. That was a plus as far as the President was concerned.

McGee cared deeply about the CIA, and about repairing its broken culture. He was the perfect pick to muck its Augean stables.

As Director of Central Intelligence, McGee had swung the ax without mercy. The Agency needed to get back to its roots. There were too many bureaucrats, too many middle managers more concerned with their next promotion than the men and women in the field.

McGee fired more people at the CIA than had been fired in the last three decades. He went after the waste, fraud, and abuse like the cancer it was. That included people friendly with Senator Wells. People who thought Wells would protect their positions.

The Senator had been quite upset about the layoffs. His pull inside the agency was waning. He was losing good sources of information and influence. People who owed him favors were being cut loose. It didn’t take him long to push back by subtly threatening the new director.

“You worry about the CIA and I’ll worry about Wells,” the President had told McGee. Up until now, it was a strategy that had worked. But Anbar had just changed everything. It would only accelerate the ambitions of Senator Wells.

Though he hadn’t yet announced, everyone knew he was going to challenge the President in the next election. Anbar, and that sick video, must have looked like a gift from heaven.

McGee had no intention of helping Wells. “As soon as I have a better picture of what happened,” he said, “I’ll be happy to brief the committee.”

“No, you’ll brief me. And I don’t care how many asses you have to kick, or kiss, you’d better have something for me soon.”

McGee nodded and began to stand. “If that’s all, I’ll be—”

“Sit down!” Wells bellowed. “I’m not finished.”

It took everything McGee had not to throat-punch the man, but he complied.

“What do you know about Vienna?” Wells demanded.

Without thinking it through, he replied, “It’s the capital of Austria.”

“You want to mess with me, Director McGee? Is that it? How funny do you think it’ll be when the CIA gets its funding cut?”

McGee knew better than to be a smart aleck. Wells wasn’t just an arrogant jackass—he was an extremely powerful, arrogant jackass. That made him dangerous.

It would be political suicide for Wells to cut off funding. He’d never do it. He could, though, slow it down. If that happened, it would cause all sorts of problems for the CIA.

That was the barrel he had McGee over, and McGee despised him for it. He hated having to kowtow to self-serving clowns like Wells.

But what he hated even more was the thought of his people at the CIA not getting what they needed. Money was oxygen in the intelligence business. If it were to be cut off, everything would cease to function. He couldn’t risk that.

“Vienna,” McGee said, pushing his ego aside. “You’re referring to the hit on al-Shishani?”

“No, I’m referring to their
fucking
schnitzel. Of course I’m referring to the hit on al-Shishani. What do you know about it?”

Everything
, thought McGee.
None of which I am going to share with you.

Looking the Senator right in the eye, the CIA Director replied, “We think the French wanted to send a message.”

“
The French?
Because the shooter allegedly mentioned Paris?” said Wells, thinking about it for a moment. “I don’t buy it. Not their style. The Israelis, maybe. But they don’t have a dog in this part of the fight.”

McGee shrugged. “You asked me what I knew.”

“And you haven’t told me shit,” said Wells. “Our government has checks and balances for a reason. If I find out that you,
or
the President, have been operating outside constitutional authority, I’ll rain hell down upon you both. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” McGee said, pressing the man’s buttons once more as he stood. “Will that be all, sir?”

Wells stared daggers at him. “Get the fuck out of my office.”

• • •

Leaving the Senator’s office, McGee knew two things. One, he hated Wells more than ever. And two, if Harvath didn’t figure out who was behind the Anbar debacle, they were all going to be in a lot of trouble.