Shadow of Doubt, page 30
“What’s this?”
“We’ve found Balthazar. Valentina Usova’s horse.”
Conroy took the folder and opened it. “Where?” he asked as he flipped through the photos.
“A town called Dzhankhot. It’s about fifteen kilometers up the coast from Pushkin’s palace.”
“You were right.”
“We got lucky,” Maggie replied.
“What do they always say? Better to be lucky than good?”
She nodded. “In that case, let’s hope we’re about to get lucky again.”
“What’s up?” Conroy asked as he set the folder down.
“We’re starting to pull on a new thread. Something in the debriefing of Leonid Grechko. It may be nothing.”
“Okay. But if it’s something, what kind of something is it?”
Maggie took a deep breath. “We’re looking at the possibility that Russia might be looking at striking outside Ukraine. Somewhere in Europe.”
CHAPTER 64
PARIS
From the beginning, Powell had been the Achilles’ heel in Harvath’s plan. No matter how many ways he came at the problem, he couldn’t find a better way to solve it. The station chief was necessary to flush Elovik out into the open, but he absolutely couldn’t be trusted.
One wrong word, one wrong facial expression, and the CIA man could torpedo the entire operation. If tipped off that something was wrong, Elovik would rabbit. He wouldn’t just walk, he’d run away—and it would be a very long time before they could get him to show his face outside the embassy again. That meant the meeting in the café was critical. But how could they guarantee that Powell would live up to his end of the bargain?
In a perfect world, Harvath would be sitting right next to him, sticking a gun in his ribs. This, however, wasn’t that world. Elovik was expecting Powell to be alone.
The next-best scenario was to have someone at a nearby table, also with a gun, who could see and hear everything that was going on. But, as he was a known commodity to the Russians, Harvath automatically ruled himself out. Even if he could have come up with some sort of passable disguise, there simply wasn’t enough time. That left either Staelin or Preisler.
Either man could have handled the job, but Preisler, who was of Danish descent and had spent loads of time visiting family in Europe whiling away hours in local cafés, was his first choice. And though Staelin, who came from solid Teutonic stock and would have easily blended in, was no stranger to European culture, his expertise would be make-or-break at the clinic.
Once all the roles were established, the ground rules were then explained to Powell. When everything was over, Harvath was going to let him walk. The contents of his safe, minus the Beretta, would be returned to him and he could keep any and all bank accounts he had established. It was agreed that in exchange for his life, he would drop off the grid and never be heard from again.
If he didn’t comply with the terms of the agreement, Harvath would hunt him down and there wouldn’t be any negotiating the next time. He would kill the station chief on the spot.
Harvath also made it clear that if the CIA man did anything to spook or warn Elovik, that if for any reason the Russian military attaché abandoned their meeting, it would be grounds for his immediate termination. To emphasize the point, Harvath told Powell to look down at his chest.
The station chief was sitting outside Café Apate, at the same table Harvath had been. Preisler, who was sitting nearby, had handed Powell his phone so that Harvath could provide the CIA man with a final recitation of the ground rules.
Upon being instructed to look at his chest, Powell glanced down and saw a tiny red dot hovering over his heart.
“Just know,” said Harvath, who was now perched behind Haney’s rifle in the fifth-floor window across the street, “that I’ll be watching you too. Don’t do anything stupid.”
With that, Harvath turned off the laser and disconnected the call.
Taped next to the window was the range card Preisler had drawn up. In addition to the distance to the café table, it listed several others Harvath had thought might be useful once he was situated in the team’s makeshift overwatch position. Having a general knowledge of how far away a target was made for better accuracy. Shooting in a civilian area was incredibly dangerous. If he had to take a shot, he wanted to make sure that as much guesswork as possible had been removed. The only blood he wanted to see spilled was Russian blood. And of course, Powell’s, if the station chief stepped out of line.
With twenty minutes left until Elovik was expected to arrive, Harvath did a final walk-through with Staelin.
Between the two of them, and their knowledge of chemistry, they had been able to scrounge multiple ingredients inside the clinic and hastily prepare several improvised devices.
Considering what the Russians were likely to throw at them, anything that might slow down their assault and help even the odds was more than welcome. In this situation, neither the Marquess of Queensberry nor the Geneva Convention applied.
After conducting a check of their weapons, comms, and other essential equipment, there was nothing else to do except wait. The Russians were going to have to come to them.
Five minutes later, Harvath received a text from Preisler. A vehicle resembling the Russian embassy cars they’d encountered in the Bois de Boulogne had just made its second pass of the café. Inside were four men in suits.
Back behind Haney’s rifle, Harvath had seen it too, though he hadn’t been able to distinguish anything about its occupants.
Looks like our guys, Preisler texted. Possibly an advance team.
Roger that, Harvath replied. Stay frosty.
A couple of minutes later, one hour on the dot since Harvath had communicated with him, a different car came to a stop in front of the café and out of it climbed Elovik.
Activating his radio, Harvath announced to the rest of the team, “Game on.”
CHAPTER 65
As Elovik exited his vehicle, his eyes took in everything, especially the multiple customers sitting outside the café. Among them, three men and two women looked like they might be pros, but he couldn’t be sure. In scenarios like this, he was always hypervigilant. As a result, his overactive mind could perceive threats that weren’t necessarily there. It was a weakness, to be sure, but it had also helped keep him alive for a very long time.
Joining his counterpart at the small, marble-topped table, he stated, “I don’t like this, Ray. Our current circumstances are quite undesirable. This was not how I wanted things to unfold.”
“I didn’t either,” Powell admitted, scanning the pavement. “Believe me.”
There had been two other men in Elovik’s vehicle, neither of whom had gotten out. Instead the car had rolled forward and pulled into a nearby loading zone, where it was currently idling. The other vehicle, the one that had twice circled the café, was nowhere to be seen.
“All the way over here,” Elovik continued, “I was tempted to pull the plug and tell my men to turn around.”
“Yet you didn’t.”
“My government would have been most displeased with me if I had. Particularly, my president. The opportunity to capture his son’s killer has quite an allure. Not the least of which is the opportunity to be recognized as a Hero of the Russian Federation.”
Even before being ensnared by Harvath and pressed into service, this kind of banter had never appealed to Powell. There was no reason to act like he enjoyed it now. “Where’s the money?”
“Right to the point,” Elovik replied. “How American of you.”
“I’m sorry. Did you expect drinks first?”
“A drink wouldn’t hurt. It would give us something to do while my men confirm the authenticity of your information.”
“Fine,” Powell relented. “Anything but vodka.”
Snapping his fingers, Elovik got the waiter’s attention and waved him over. “As a rule, I don’t like to celebrate before a job is done. But for some reason, I feel extra confident tonight. Let’s have champagne.”
“Order whatever you like. You’re buying.”
After a little back-and-forth with the waiter about the wine list, the Russian settled on a vintage and the waiter headed inside to retrieve two glasses.
While they waited, Elovik probed what had happened in the Bois de Boulogne. “Six dead Russians and only three dead Americans. Seems somewhat disproportionate, doesn’t it?”
“I warned you,” Powell replied. “The Americans were all ex–Special Forces. A couple of them were even Tier One operators.”
“Which was why I sent some of my best.”
“Well, apparently your best weren’t good enough.”
“Good enough to take out three of yours,” Elovik responded with a smile.
“If, at any point, you want to say ‘thank you,’ feel free to just spit it out. If it wasn’t for me, you never would have seen Harvath coming.”
“My dear Ray. We did thank you. One hundred and fifty thousand times. And you’re about to get three hundred thousand more. Perhaps it is you who owe us some thanks.”
Powell shook his head. “This is the problem with Russian economics. To you guys, hundreds of thousands of dollars are like winning the world’s biggest lottery. You think you can retire and maybe, in Russia, four hundred and fifty sets you up for the rest of your life. But in American economics, four fifty is nothing but a really good year.”
Elovik smiled. “Who said anything about retiring? We expect you to have a long, deeply involved career at the CIA. In fact, we’re going to help get you to deputy director. That’s when you’ll really begin making money.”
The station chief, not a fan of being bullied, was choking back the urge to tell his handler to fuck right off when the waiter appeared with two glasses of champagne and set them on the table.
“Santé,” the Russian said in French, picking his up and clinking it against Powell’s. To health.
The station chief didn’t respond in kind. Instead he raised his glass in the attaché’s direction and took a long, smooth sip.
It was a decent champagne, made even more delicious to Powell by the fact that his handler actually thought he had something worth celebrating.
“Well,” Elovik stated, setting his glass down. “Now that we have our drinks, I think it’s time that you give me what I came for.”
Removing a cocktail napkin from his pocket, the station chief placed it on the table and slid it across to him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the Russian replied, picking his head up and looking across the street at the building that housed the Clinique Saint-Raphael. “I thought you chose this neighborhood because it was off the beaten U.S. Embassy path, or you had a safehouse around here or something. That’s where Harvath is? Right now?”
“My hand to God,” Powell replied, not raising his hand.
“Who else is in there?”
“Patient-wise? Only Harvath and one of his teammates. I don’t know how many staff. Probably pretty sparse. One nurse. Maybe two? It’s the overnight shift.”
“How did Harvath find this place? He didn’t get it from you, did he?”
The station chief shook his head. “I haven’t heard from him since I dropped him off at the safehouse. From what I understand, his own organization kept working with the surgeon who runs the place after we fired him. Sometimes the intelligence world is small.”
“Quite,” Elovik agreed. “Do you know anything about the building? Service elevators? Stairwells? Airshafts?”
“Not part of my purview. Our security guys handle that stuff. I just made sure the bills were paid.”
“Understandable,” the Russian replied as he pulled out his phone and took a picture of the cocktail napkin with the address written upon it. Typing out a quick text message, he attached the photo and hit send.
“Now what?” Powell asked.
Sitting back in his chair and raising his glass, Elovik said, “Now we enjoy our champagne.”
CHAPTER 66
If Harvath had been truly honest with himself, he had only partially relinquished control. Stepping into the sniper role and occupying an overwatch position allowed him to be two places at once.
He could be in the window, with a view across the street, enabling him to protect and assist Preisler, and he could also be available to back up Staelin, should anything go down. In essence, he had figured out how to have his cake and eat it too.
Harvath had only one rule of engagement. If the Russians went on the offensive, then any Russians in or around the operation could be considered rightful combatants and therefore fair game.
As his phone vibrated, he looked down at a text from Preisler. Elovik just transmitted your location. Look sharp.
Harvath texted back a thumbs-up and then radioed the rest of the team. If an attack was coming, it was coming soon.
As Harvath manned Haney’s suppressed 417, Staelin was monitoring a bank of CCTV cameras at the front desk.
Four minutes after Preisler’s last text, he texted again. Three vehicles just pulled up. South side of your building.
Acknowledging receipt, Harvath then hailed Staelin. “We’ve got company. South side. Three vehicles.”
“Good copy,” Staelin replied. “I see them. They’re debussing now. Looks like twelve men in total.”
“Twelve?” Harvath replied. “Who’s back watching their embassy?”
“They’re going to be down to cooks and computer specialists soon. Here we go. They’re approaching the lobby door.”
“Which I made sure was fully locked. If they breach that barrier, it’s on. We go hot.”
“Jesus,” said Staelin, leaning in closer to watch his monitor. “One of these guys just pulled a sledgehammer out from under his jacket.”
There was a pause as Staelin continued to watch the events on the ground level unfold. Then his voice crackled back across the radio, “Breach. Breach. Breach. They just made entry.”
“Roger that. We’re live.”
“Confirmed,” Staelin replied. “They’re breaking into four-man teams. One is headed for the north stairwell. Another is crossing the lobby toward the south stairwell. And, if you can believe it, it looks like these idiots are going to send the last team up the elevator.”
“It’s the Russians,” said Harvath. “I can believe anything. Just make sure there’s something there to greet them.”
“Roger that,” the ex–Delta Force operative stated, getting up from the front desk. “I’m going to position one.”
“Good copy,” said Harvath as he texted Preisler. Contact. You’re cleared hot. 10 seconds out.
When Preisler sent him the thumbs-up, Harvath began counting down from ten. Flipping the fire selector on the 417 from safe to single shot, he snugged the butt of the weapon up against his shoulder and consulted the range card taped next to the window.
As soon as he saw Preisler stand up and approach the table where Powell and Elovik were seated, he sighted in his target and took a deep breath.
Exhaling, he pressed the rifle’s trigger. Good hit, he murmured to himself as it shattered the windshield of Elovik’s vehicle, idling in the no-parking zone. He followed it up with five more, moving back and forth between the driver and passenger.
He then watched as Preisler, who already had the Russian military attaché on his feet with a pistol jammed tightly into his side, steered him out of the café and down the block.
True to their arrangement, Powell—who had laid money on the table to pay their tab—was walking right alongside. When they reached the embassy vehicle, the station chief popped the trunk and removed the briefcase with his payment; then the trio disappeared around the corner to where Harvath had parked the CIA man’s Citroen.
As soon as they were no longer visible, Harvath closed the window, transitioned from Haney’s 417 to Johnson’s H&K UMP submachine gun, and let Staelin know he was coming.
With only one, half-loaded backup mag, he was going to have to be judicious with how much lead he slung.
That said, if the handful of improvised devices they had created ended up working, they might be able to tilt the field to their advantage, regardless of how outmanned they now found themselves.
Racing down the hallway, Harvath tagged up with Staelin not far from the elevator and the front desk area. The Russians coming up the elevator were going to be first on the floor. It was critical that they not gain any ground.
“We good?” Harvath asked as he drew even with him.
“If we’re not,” Staelin replied, “we’re about to find out.”
Ahead of them, the elevator indicator chimed, and each floor indicator lit up as the carriage approached.
Finally it arrived at the fifth floor, and when it did, Harvath announced, “Showtime.”
When the doors started to open, he and Staelin pulled the tabs on their homemade diversionary devices and slid them across the floor toward the elevator.
As the four gun-wielding Russians inside were revealed, the fuel-air explosive devices detonated. There was a bright flash, followed by a muted boom.
Though not the overwhelming flashbang effect Harvath had been hoping for, it was enough to temporarily blind, if not stun, their attackers.
Not wanting to waste a single moment of their advantage, he and Staelin sprang from their hiding places and, guns blazing, fired rounds of two shots in rapid succession known as controlled pairs. None of the Russians made it out of the elevator.
As the four men lay dead or dying, Harvath helped himself to one of their Kedr machine pistols and, adjusting the fire selector, delivered four quick head shots just to make sure. With that, it was time for Harvath and Staelin to split up.
It had been decided that Harvath would take the north stairwell and Staelin the south. Pulling the stop button so the elevator couldn’t return to the lobby, the two men hustled in their separate directions.
In the middle of Harvath’s hallway, next to a purposefully overturned supply cart, lay a metal box about the size of a loaf of bread. Two long, uninsulated wires, which were hopefully difficult to see, connected it to a jerry-rigged detonator.
