inside. He knocked and waited. No one answered. He tried once more. Nothing .
He tried the knob, but the door was locked. Removing his picks, he let himself in.
The apartment was lit by the faint glow of the streetlamps outside. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust.
Setting the flowers down, he removed his Glock and began moving from room to room.
The decor was sleek and minimalist. The artwork tasteful, but inexpensive. It looked like an IKEA ad. The only place where any real money had been spent was in the kitchen.
From the Le Creuset cookware to the expensive Japanese chef’s knives displayed like museum pieces, it was obvious that someone took their cooking seriously.
There was a row of cookbooks with titles in German, French, and English. In one drawer he found a stack of food magazines. The fridge and cabinets were filled with a wide array of gourmet food items, including caviar, truffles, and foie gras.
There was clothing in the closets and a smattering of personal items scattered about, but other than that, the apartment was much more hotel than home.
On his second sweep, Harvath looked for places Baseyev could have hidden an emergency cache. Any operative worth his salt would have kept one nearby. They usually included cash, a burner phone or clean SIM cards, and a weapon. Medical supplies, disguises, and even fake identification might be a part of it as well. It was all based upon what the operative or his organization thought was needed.
Harvath was incredibly thorough in his search, but turned up nothing. If Baseyev did have an “oh shit” kit, it wasn’t in the apartment.
The entire trip to Frankfurt was a bust. It pissed Harvath off. He hateddead ends and wasted time. The best the CIA could do at this point was to wire up the apartment and sit on it. If Baseyev came back, they’d need a team ready to put a bag over his head and transport him to a black site for a nice long chat.
In the meantime, the CIA would also want to approach the roommates to see what they knew. Even the best operative could make a mistake. Baseyev might have screwed up at some point and let something slip that might be helpful.
Putting everything back exactly as he had found it, Harvath retrieved the flowers and left the apartment. He needed to report in. The chain of command, though, was a bit murky.
Technically, he worked for a private organization called The Carlton Group. Reed Carlton was an iconic spymaster who had established the Central Intelligence Agency’s counterterrorism center. He put the old in “old school.”
After decades of faithful service, he had gotten out. He couldn’t stand the careerists and the bureaucracy anymore. He saw a real future for an organization able to operate without red tape and beyond the reach of Congress. The Defense Department and the CIA turned out to be two of his best customers. They, in turn, always wanted his best operative.
Carlton had taught Harvath everything he knew about the espionage business. Coupling that with his SEAL background, Harvath had vaulted to the top of the food chain. He was an apex predator, a hunter without equal.
Tucked away, compartmentalized, was the man himself. He liked his work. He probably liked it too much.
It cast a shadow over everything else in his life. And the problem with shadows was that it was very hard for anything to grow in the shade.
He wanted the American Dream, but he had been called to protect it. There were wolves and the wolves needed to be hunted. He had a lot of hunting left in him.
What he didn’t have a lot left of was time to start a family. It was slipping away. He had spent his entire adult life being loyal to everyone. Everyone but himself. At some point, the torch had to be passed. At some point, he had to let someone else take his place on the wall.
Not today, though. There was way too much at stake.
Back in his rental car, Harvath used his encrypted phone to text the CIA’s Deputy Director, Lydia Ryan. Ryan
He tried the knob, but the door was locked. Removing his picks, he let himself in.
The apartment was lit by the faint glow of the streetlamps outside. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust.
Setting the flowers down, he removed his Glock and began moving from room to room.
The decor was sleek and minimalist. The artwork tasteful, but inexpensive. It looked like an IKEA ad. The only place where any real money had been spent was in the kitchen.
From the Le Creuset cookware to the expensive Japanese chef’s knives displayed like museum pieces, it was obvious that someone took their cooking seriously.
There was a row of cookbooks with titles in German, French, and English. In one drawer he found a stack of food magazines. The fridge and cabinets were filled with a wide array of gourmet food items, including caviar, truffles, and foie gras.
There was clothing in the closets and a smattering of personal items scattered about, but other than that, the apartment was much more hotel than home.
On his second sweep, Harvath looked for places Baseyev could have hidden an emergency cache. Any operative worth his salt would have kept one nearby. They usually included cash, a burner phone or clean SIM cards, and a weapon. Medical supplies, disguises, and even fake identification might be a part of it as well. It was all based upon what the operative or his organization thought was needed.
Harvath was incredibly thorough in his search, but turned up nothing. If Baseyev did have an “oh shit” kit, it wasn’t in the apartment.
The entire trip to Frankfurt was a bust. It pissed Harvath off. He hateddead ends and wasted time. The best the CIA could do at this point was to wire up the apartment and sit on it. If Baseyev came back, they’d need a team ready to put a bag over his head and transport him to a black site for a nice long chat.
In the meantime, the CIA would also want to approach the roommates to see what they knew. Even the best operative could make a mistake. Baseyev might have screwed up at some point and let something slip that might be helpful.
Putting everything back exactly as he had found it, Harvath retrieved the flowers and left the apartment. He needed to report in. The chain of command, though, was a bit murky.
Technically, he worked for a private organization called The Carlton Group. Reed Carlton was an iconic spymaster who had established the Central Intelligence Agency’s counterterrorism center. He put the old in “old school.”
After decades of faithful service, he had gotten out. He couldn’t stand the careerists and the bureaucracy anymore. He saw a real future for an organization able to operate without red tape and beyond the reach of Congress. The Defense Department and the CIA turned out to be two of his best customers. They, in turn, always wanted his best operative.
Carlton had taught Harvath everything he knew about the espionage business. Coupling that with his SEAL background, Harvath had vaulted to the top of the food chain. He was an apex predator, a hunter without equal.
Tucked away, compartmentalized, was the man himself. He liked his work. He probably liked it too much.
It cast a shadow over everything else in his life. And the problem with shadows was that it was very hard for anything to grow in the shade.
He wanted the American Dream, but he had been called to protect it. There were wolves and the wolves needed to be hunted. He had a lot of hunting left in him.
What he didn’t have a lot left of was time to start a family. It was slipping away. He had spent his entire adult life being loyal to everyone. Everyone but himself. At some point, the torch had to be passed. At some point, he had to let someone else take his place on the wall.
Not today, though. There was way too much at stake.
Back in his rental car, Harvath used his encrypted phone to text the CIA’s Deputy Director, Lydia Ryan. Ryan
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