Shadow of Doubt, page 22
The LED hull lights pushed illumination from the stern outward, so he ducked under the middle of the boat and swam aft. The lights were so bright, he didn’t even need his headlamp.
While being careful not to be illuminated or to cast a shadow, he pulled one marker light at a time from the mesh bag at his waist and zip-tied them in place to the outermost tube on the port side. After activating them in IR mode, he swam back to where he had started, quietly broke the surface, and filled his lungs once more with air.
Once he was ready, he slipped back underwater and repeated the process, this time on the starboard side.
Satisfied with the job that he had done and confident that the HEL-STARs were securely in place, he swam away from Tsybulsky’s boat and out toward the middle of the harbor, where Barton would be picking him up.
Using his pain as motivation, he leaned into it and propelled himself with as much speed as his legs and his flippers would muster.
Several minutes later, when he arrived at the rendezvous point, he activated his own HEL-STAR and waited for the team to detect his IR beam through their night vision. It didn’t take long. Soon enough, he could hear the rumble of the big V-8s as the BRABUS Shadow approached.
As they slowly moved past, one of the commandos tossed him a line. Harvath grabbed hold and pulled himself up close against the hull as Barton piloted the craft toward the mouth of the harbor.
Even though his muscles were tired and he was dipping into his reserves to maintain his grip, it felt good to no longer have to be kicking. All he had to do was hang on a little longer.
The moment they cleared the final dock, Barton put the BRABUS in neutral and they pulled Harvath aboard. As he pulled off his mask and fins, one of the Ukrainians tossed him a towel. He was halfway out of his wet suit when Barton put the boat back in gear and headed for the open ocean. They needed to be in place and all set up before Tsybulsky passed.
Because of the contours of the coast, the most direct route back to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat was a straight line that resembled traveling from two o’clock to seven o’clock across a watch face.
Charting this course, Tsybulsky would exit the harbor, point his yacht southwest, and move parallel to Monaco’s shoreline before being taken out into deeper water as he crossed the Golfe de Saint-Hospice. It was Harvath’s job to make sure he didn’t get that far.
Out of the wet suit and back in dry clothes, he joined Barton at the helm where he focused on the touchscreens—particularly the digital navigation features. He wanted a precise picture of the boat’s exact location at all times.
Activating the BRABUS’s electronic chart plotter, he pulled up the port at Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat and activated it as their destination. Tsybulsky’s captain had likely done the same and it would allow them to better anticipate his movements.
Harvath watched as Max and Petro assembled their equipment. He recognized the Accuracy International AX50 ELR from having seen it at the caretaker’s cottage. It was a .50 BMG (Browning Machine Gun), extremely long-range antimatériel rifle. Weighing in at almost twenty-eight pounds, the weapon boasted impressively low recoil and incredible accuracy. It was capable of taking out targets at an effective range of 2,500 meters, or more than twenty-seven football fields away.
The fact that it fired the high-explosive incendiary/armor-piercing projectile known as the Raufoss Mk 211 only further endeared the weapon to his heart. The round was manufactured by a Finnish-Norwegian company called Nammo, and the word raufoss was Norwegian for “red waterfall.” A pretty good omen in his book.
Topping it all off, the rifle had been outfitted with an AWC Thor Turbodyne titanium suppressor, a Schmidt & Bender scope, and a HISS-XLR ThermoSight. The entire package probably cost more than most people’s cars.
As the commandos continued to ready their gear, Harvath scrolled through the digital navigation system.
Pointing to a spot up ahead, he drew Barton’s attention to the map and said, “X marks the spot. This is where we’re going to do it.”
CHAPTER 41
Lined with plush cushions, the bow of the BRABUS was designed as a luxurious, oversized sun pad. It was a far cry from the cold, unforgiving landscapes Max and Petro usually found themselves in—more like the Ritz than a sniper’s perch. Despite the incongruity, they hauled their equipment forward and began setting up their new “office.”
After Max’s rifle, the only thing nearly as expensive on board were two pairs of thermal binoculars from Newcon Optik. They were like pieces of alien technology. The devices could see through smoke, fog, and countless forms of camouflage. They also had built-in laser rangefinders that could measure distance, azimuth, and inclination for far-off targets—all necessary features for Petro, who was the team’s spotter and would be helping Max zero in on Tsybulsky.
For Harvath, however, there was one additional feature that was critical to the mission’s success. Everything seen by the binoculars could be recorded and then exported to a peripheral device, such as an iPhone, and subsequently uploaded anywhere—including to social media.
Standing at the darkened stern of the BRABUS, he peered through his binoculars. Scanning the yachts leaving Port Hercule, he searched for the telltale pulses of infrared light from the HEL-STARs he had attached to Tsybulsky’s vessel.
There was an intermittent breeze, and Harvath could feel the boat begin to roll beneath his feet. A light swell had formed. Max and Petro already had a highly complex and difficult ask. Any change in the environment, no matter how small, was only going to make their job harder.
The team was wearing noise-reduction headsets with boom microphones connected to their individual radios. When Harvath identified Tsybulsky’s Lamborghini 63, Hermes, exiting the harbor, he gave the team the heads-up.
While examining the yacht earlier in the day, he hadn’t noticed a FLIR camera that would allow its crew night-vision capability. That didn’t mean that there wasn’t one, perhaps cleverly incorporated somewhere into the vessel’s design. There was also the possibility that they had a handheld unit of some sort like what Harvath was using. But even if they did, there was no reason to have it out unless there was an emergency. Just to be safe, Max and Petro had covered themselves with a Predator brand, spectralflage ghillie blanket, which helped reduce both their IR and thermal signatures.
Harvath’s hope had been to point the BRABUS perpendicular to the shore, and to engage the Hermes as she passed in front of their bow. Not only would it give Max a good, clean profile shot with the .50-cal, but if he missed, the coastline in this area was nothing but concrete seawall and rocky cliff face. There was no worry that any errant rounds would strike and kill innocent bystanders.
All of that was for naught, however, when he saw what Tsybulsky’s boat did next, forcing him to recalibrate.
Instead of a nice, leisurely cruise back to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, someone had decided to drop the hammer.
There was a roar as the throttles were pushed forward and the enormous V-12 engines leapt to life, like a pair of lions being released from a cage.
“We’re going to have to chase him,” Harvath stated over the radio.
“Roger that,” Barton replied. “Everybody hang on.”
That Tsybulsky might come out of Port Hercule and decide to put the pedal to the metal had been on Harvath’s list of possibilities. The Hermes was a Lamborghini, after all. You didn’t spend millions of dollars on a yacht like that if you didn’t enjoy speed.
Harvath had no idea why the Russian hadn’t stayed longer at the casino, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that they needed to keep the man in their sights. Literally. Leaving the BRABUS’s running lights extinguished, Barton gave chase.
Lying on a floating platform, correcting for wind, while trying to time the up and down of swells, all in order to shoot at a boat as it passed by, was already a monumental undertaking.
Now, however, Max and Petro were going to have to pull it off while speeding after said boat. What’s more, their shots would no longer be focused on the side of the yacht, but rather its tail.
Harvath had been concerned that it could come down to this, which was another reason why he had attached the infrared marker lights. Not only would they help positively identify Tsybulsky’s boat, but they could also help dictate the area within which Max would have to deliver his rounds. Petro knew how far above the waterline to instruct Max to be aiming to effectively hit their target. The HEL-STARs allowed him to establish dead center.
The pain-in-the-ass factor in all of this, though, was how fast they were moving. To be fair, once the BRABUS had popped out of the “hole” and was up on plane, the craft was a lot more stable. But it was far from perfect. Speed could be a real hindrance to accuracy.
The other issue, which the commandos couldn’t be bothered with, was that they were now running parallel to the coastline. If one of their shots went wide, someone on the water ahead of Tsybulsky could be killed.
Harvath tried not to think about it. Right now, he had one eye glued to the navigation screen and their GPS location. The biggest problem with the Hermes going like a bat out of hell was that they were very quickly going to leave the territorial waters of Monaco and be back in France. The commandos needed to start slinging lead.
“Light’em up,” Harvath ordered over the team’s headsets. “Send it!”
Seconds later, the first round from the antimatériel rifle screamed out of the suppressed barrel and rocketed toward the stern of the Hermes.
It was perfectly placed and tore right through the rear sun pad area, which covered the engine compartment.
Petro radioed that they had scored a direct hit and then began helping Max set up his next shot.
Once again the heavy rifle fired, and once again they scored another direct hit. Peering into his thermal binoculars, Petro walked Max through his next shot, which, thanks to a sudden rise in the bow, went straight through the Lamborghini’s cockpit and shattered its windshield.
Harvath watched through his binoculars as pandemonium erupted on board the Hermes. Smoke was pouring out of her manifolds and her engine compartment. More importantly, she was slowing down.
Aware that they were under attack from the rear, several of Tsybulsky’s men appeared at the yacht’s stern, armed with automatic weapons, and began firing.
“Get us as close to them as you can,” Harvath told Barton, concerned that they were quickly running out of territorial runway.
Hailing Max, who had fired his two last shots and was now inserting a fresh magazine, he told the sniper to keep putting rounds on the Hermes. He didn’t need to tell Petro that it was now his time to shine.
No longer concerned about remaining hidden, the commando cast off the camouflage blanket and moved quickly back to the cockpit area of the BRABUS.
Flipping open the lid of a rectangular storm case, he punched several buttons, activating the device inside, and then flashed Harvath the thumbs-up.
Looking through his binos again, Harvath could see not only that the red waterfall rounds had disabled the Lamborghini’s V-12 engines, but also that the engine compartment was actively on fire. Crew members sprayed fire extinguishers into the space, trying to put out the flames.
Worried that Tsybulsky’s people might have already radioed for help and, seeing that they were almost at the maritime border with France, Harvath slapped the helm’s console and commanded Barton to go faster.
The former SEAL gave Max a warning up front and then sliced out of the yacht’s wake, pushing the throttles as far forward as they would go.
As the BRABUS’s deep V-hull cut through the waves, Harvath counted down the remaining distance on the GPS, finally ordering Barton to come to a stop.
“This is it. We launch here,” he stated. “Petro. You’re up!”
As the commando used a set of nylon straps to lift the device out of its case and lower it into the water, his colleague had readjusted himself at the bow and was firing anew at the Hermes. Little did Tsybulsky or his men know that something much worse than high-explosive incendiary/armor-piercing rounds was headed their way.
The unmanned surface vehicle, or USV for short, that Max and Petro had brought with them was something new. It was similar to the jet-ski-based, waterborne drones that had proven so effective against the warships in Russia’s Black Sea fleet, but smaller. Called a Vodyanyk and based on a reworked sea scooter known as SEABOB, it packed a considerable payload and was quite fast.
Not fast enough, however, to catch a vessel that was underway at speed. Ukraine’s USVs were meant to target ships that were either docked or moving quite slowly. That was why Tsybulsky’s boat needed to be stopped before they could send the USV after it.
“Twenty seconds to contact,” Petro announced, using a ruggedized tablet to remotely pilot the Vodyanyk. “Fifteen…”
Harvath watched through his binoculars, digitally recording everything.
As Petro announced, “Impact in five, four, three…” all eyes were on the Hermes. When the explosive-laden USV rammed into it, the detonation was instantaneous.
As a roiling fireball climbed into the night sky, the shock wave from the enormous blast sent a wall of water all the way out to the BRABUS, soaking everyone on board.
Minutes later, putting their boat in gear, Harvath and the team piloted through the flaming wreckage of the Hermes, making sure everyone was dead.
There were no survivors. Everything had happened in Monaco’s territorial waters. Nothing had crossed the line into France. The operation had been a success.
CHAPTER 42
PARIS
“You’re a bad Muslim,” the young man stated. He was seated behind a laptop covered with stickers acquired at French hacking conferences. “We never see you at mosque anymore.”
“You know I changed mosques,” MoMo replied.
“Yes. Allegedly, you go to the same one as my cousin. I asked him, but he says he hasn’t seen you in months.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy for Allah?”
MoMo held up his hand. He wasn’t interested in rhetorical questions. “Amir, please. I didn’t come here for a lecture.”
“Correct. You came for my help. And that’s what I’m giving you. I don’t want you to lose your way.”
“I’m not going to lose my way.”
“Says the brother who no longer goes to mosque.”
In the interest of getting what he wanted, MoMo relented. “If I promise to go to mosque this week, will you shut up and help me?”
“How many times this week?” the other man asked.
MoMo was losing his patience. “You know what? Forget it. Instead, I’m going to go back to my office and tell the DGSI that I saw someone moving a bunch of bomb-making equipment in here.”
“Into my mother’s home? How dare you.”
“Give it a rest, Amir. You and I both know your mom moved back to Morocco three years ago. Which means you’re not only squatting in this rent-controlled apartment, but I bet if I looked into it, your mom is still collecting social assistance funds. Funds meant for residents of France. So let me ask you, does she have direct deposit, or do you cash her checks and send the money directly back to Rabat?”
The young man shook his head. “As I said, you’re a bad Muslim.”
“With apologies to you and Allah, peace be upon him, I’m also a French citizen. And as such, I have a duty to uphold the oath I swore when I joined the DGSI. You took a similar oath, remember?”
Amir did remember. He had been a highly skilled cyber specialist for the Agence nationale de la sécurité des systèmes d’information, or ANSSI for short, where he worked in the national cyber incident-response center. But despite his pious pose, Amir loved money, which was why he had allowed himself to be wooed out of government service by a French company at the forefront of artificial intelligence.
MoMo didn’t begrudge him the move. For a handful of kids in their old neighborhood, computers were their way out. While other children were practicing their soccer skills, dreaming of becoming professional athletes, MoMo and Amir were learning how to program and code.
As his frustration with cracking Brunelle’s flash drive had continued to build, he had thought of Amir—especially in light of the successes they’d had in using the AI software to track the initial movements of Jadot’s killer. He’d also gotten a taste of being in the field and he liked it.
If he were being honest, the fact that he still hadn’t been able to track down the Russians’ getaway vehicle, the one they’d fled Seine-Saint-Denis in after torching their stolen Peugeot, was also weighing on his mind. He wanted to prove he had good investigative instincts and that he should be entrusted with more fieldwork.
All of that was what had brought him to the little apartment in Paris’s posh 7th arrondissement. How Amir’s mother had finagled her way into it was beyond him. A stone’s throw from Napoleon’s tomb and the Rodin museum, the unit couldn’t have been situated in a more perfect location.
“Your uncle wouldn’t agree with how you’re comporting yourself,” Amir stated, attempting a stab at his conscience.
“And my father wouldn’t agree with you and your mother ripping off the French taxpayer,” MoMo replied, parrying the blow. “So let’s just leave our families out of this and focus on the reason I’m here.”
With an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, Amir conceded the point. He knew what he and his mother were up to. It wasn’t just wrong, it was illegal. Flagging him as a potential terrorist was probably the least of the things MoMo could do to make his life a living hell. He decided that discretion was the better part of valor, especially when it came to someone he had grown up with in the old neighborhood.
“Fair enough,” said Amir. “Did you bring the device with you?”
Pulling it out of his pocket, MoMo handed it over.
The other man looked at it in disbelief. “Somebody stored national security information on a flash drive disguised as a key fob? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
