Dead fall, p.12
Dead Fall, page 12
“And your problem is that you’re never happy unless you’re complaining about something. Now, take your coffee and get out of my kitchen,” she teased. “I’ll show the Senator in.”
* * *
True to her word, Mrs. Paulsen took her time visiting with former Senator Wilson, who insisted, as he always did, that she call him “Greg.” By the time she delivered him to her husband’s study, Kyle Paulsen was convinced that his wife had been dragging out the small talk with Wilson just to piss him off.
When the man finally entered his study, Paulsen remained behind his desk and let Wilson come to him.
“Good to see you again, Kyle,” said Wilson as he stepped into the richly appointed room.
Rolling ladders with shiny brass fittings fronted mahogany bookcases stuffed with leatherbound editions. Oil paintings depicting scenes of whaling and other eighteenth-century seafaring life hung in heavy, gilded frames. The floors were covered with insanely expensive Persian carpets fit for a sheikh.
But the room’s focal point, the feature that most took visitors’ breath away, was the gigantic picture window overlooking Frenchman Bay. From it, you could see everything from the Egg Rock Lighthouse to the Porcupine Islands and beyond.
In front of the window was an antique telescope and next to it a collection of navigation equipment—sextants and compasses, many of them hundreds of years old.
Pictures of the couple’s children and grandchildren were everywhere. They had a large family.
“Greg,” said Paulsen, accepting the man’s hand.
“I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again,” Wilson remarked. “You have the best office I have ever seen.”
The older man ignored the compliment. He also ignored the former southern Senator’s ever-present cowboy boots, which he despised and normally took a shot at. Right now, something else had totally gripped his attention. “What the hell happened to your teeth?”
“My teeth?” replied Wilson, his hand self-consciously rising to cover his mouth before he caught himself, lowered it back down, and smiled. “I had them whitened. What do you think? They say it knocks ten years off your appearance.”
“I don’t know who they are, but whatever you were charged, you got ripped off.”
Wilson fought to keep his temper under control. He couldn’t stand this cantankerous motherfucker. The man never had a single kind word to say about anything. If he wasn’t bitching about Wilson’s boots, it was about his beard—and now he’d found a new target: his teeth.
Whoever said that money couldn’t buy happiness was one hundred percent correct. Despite his vast fortune, Kyle Paulsen was one of the unhappiest people he had ever met.
Like most Americans who had built generational wealth, Paulsen’s story was about being in the right place at the right time, with the right idea—even if it was in an incredibly boring business.
Paulsen had come up with a formula for asphalt paving that was resistant to cracking and allowed for a much-lengthened life span. The only people who didn’t think his product was absolutely brilliant were the state and local crews paid to fill potholes. Everyone else loved it.
As was typical with a good chunk of the uberwealthy, the more money they had, the smarter they thought they were, which invariably led them to want to play in the ultimate competitor sport—politics.
Some strapped the armor on, climbed into the arena, and ran for elected office. Others accepted a government position based upon how much money they had helped an administration raise. The rest poured money in from the sidelines hoping to influence policy and legislation. Kyle Paulsen was a member of the third category of political players.
He had a long list of initiatives he wanted to see achieved in the next session of Congress, which was why Wilson had flown up to sit down with him. It was an aggressive agenda. As the man in Washington responsible for helping Paulsen achieve his goals, he wanted to make sure that they were on the same page and setting realistic expectations.
Having learned a long time ago that he wouldn’t be offered a seat, Wilson sat himself down in one of the leather chairs in front of Paulsen’s desk, removed a thick binder from his briefcase, and pulled a pen from his suitcoat pocket.
“There’s going to be a narrow majority in the House,” he said, flipping to a page of recent notes and getting right to business. “The Senate is up for grabs, but I think it’ll break in our direction. With that in mind, my recommendation would be that we pick three major items and focus on them like a laser. What did you have in mind?”
Paulsen leaned forward, fists on his desk. “Ukraine. Ukraine. Ukraine. How about that for three major items?”
It wasn’t exactly what Wilson meant, but it was a start. “Can you be more specific?”
“No more weapons. No more money. And we criminalize the actions of any American who goes over there to fight. I don’t care if they’ve got a Bronze Star, a Silver Star, a Purple Heart, or the yellow rose of fucking Texas between their teeth: our tax dollars went to train them so that they could defend the United States, not some corrupt nation halfway around the world that most Americans can’t even find on a goddamn map.
“That war, if you even want to call it that, is between Ukraine and Russia—not us. We didn’t start it and it’s not our responsibility to stop it. It’s a quagmire. We learned nothing in Vietnam and even less in Afghanistan. With every day that passes, we’re getting sucked deeper and deeper into the mess. Very soon, we’re going to wake up to find ourselves in an all-out hot war with Russia. It’ll be World War III and the fact that I can say ‘I told you so’ won’t make a damn bit of difference to my children and my grandchildren. This insanity has to stop. Right fucking now.”
The old man was on a tear this morning, which was fine by Wilson. The more fired up he was, the easier he was to manipulate. “So, no China initiatives? No farm subsidies or border policy issues?”
“In case you’ve suddenly been struck deaf, I want you to read my lips,” the old man snarled. “Our focus is going to be Ukraine, Ukraine, Ukraine. Everything else is on the back burner. Understand me?”
“I hear you loud and clear,” Wilson replied, making a few notes in his binder. “Let’s talk about practicality. The bulk of the lethal aid getting ready to ship was passed by the last Congress. We’re not going to be able to claw that back. Financing is a different issue. There’s some room there for us to have a significant impact.
“Where I really think you’re onto something, however, is this idea of U.S. citizens being legally prohibited from fighting. The United Kingdom has legislation making it illegal for British nationals to fight over there as well as to assist others who are engaged in the conflict.”
“And we need to stop sending over current and prior U.S. military members to help train the Ukrainians,” Paulsen added. “I don’t care if those morons in Washington have committed new weapons systems or not. Let the Ukrainians learn how to read the fucking manuals. With every American that enters that country, we are one step closer to war with Russia.”
“We definitely do not want war with Russia,” said Wilson. “I think that’s an excellent place from which to build common ground up on the hill.”
Paulsen shook his head. “Fuck common ground. I want you to go scorched earth on anyone who gets in your way. Opposition research, blackmail… you practice whatever dark arts you need to make this happen.”
“That could get pretty expensive.”
“I don’t care. I have more money than my family will ever be able to spend. This is about the safety and future of our country.”
Wilson loved where this was going. He had spent a lot of time getting Paulsen to this point and it was turning out to be worth every insult he had been suffered to endure.
“And something else,” the old man added. “I want a list of everyone on our side who attempts to get in the way.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to set up a new PAC, stuffed to the rafters with money, to field challengers and to make sure that they lose their next primary.”
It just kept getting better—like hitting the lottery over and over again in the same day. Paulsen was a diamond-encrusted bulldozer and Wilson was in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t wait to get back to D.C. and get started.
But he couldn’t leave, not just yet. He needed to make sure Paulsen felt he had gotten his money’s worth from the visit.
There were also a few more items on his hidden agenda, the things his handler had specifically asked for, that he needed to secure before leaving. Once he had those tasks completed, he could head back to D.C. and maybe even do a little celebrating.
CHAPTER 12
UKRAINE
The only gear Harvath possessed was what he had been carrying on his person when he had jumped out of the train. Everything else had been incinerated. Poking through the wreckage would have been pointless. His carriage had been destroyed.
He indicated to rescuers where he had last seen Symon and then hopped into the ambulance with Artem, the pregnant woman having already been taken away in a separate ambulance.
It was a fast but bumpy ride to the hospital in Kharkiv—Ukraine’s second-largest city.
As they got closer into town, he was able to get cell service. Opening his encrypted messaging app, he texted Nicholas an update.
By the time they arrived, word of the attack on the train had already spread. Personnel congregated at the emergency room entrance, ready to receive the wounded.
Sadly, only a handful of people had survived. Most of the train’s staff and passengers had been killed. Efforts would very soon move from rescue to recovery.
The burning sensation Harvath had felt during the attack turned out to be a superheated piece of plastic that had fused to the back of his shirt and melted through to his skin. The wound was red and painful, but mercifully there were no blisters. A nurse treated his injury and helped find him a new shirt. Then she took him to see Artem.
His leg would need surgery, but he had been stabilized and was expected to make it. The doctors agreed to give him a few moments alone to speak with Harvath.
Without wasting any time, he provided the name, a rough description, and the location of the GUR operative waiting for Harvath at the main railway station. He also conveyed the passwords that were to be used. Then he thanked Harvath for what he had done and told him to be careful. He wished him a successful outcome for his mission.
Harvath thanked the man in return and once again extended his condolences over the loss of Symon. He told the intelligence officer to get well soon and then stood back as the medical team came back into the room and wheeled Artem out for surgery.
At the emergency entrance, he found the ambulance driver who had brought them in from the train attack. He was loading his vehicle with body bags, preparing to go back. Harvath asked if he could drop him at the station on his way and the man told him to get in.
They made small talk, mostly in Russian, which most of the residents this close to the border spoke. The driver figured Harvath was in-country to fight for the International Legion and thanked him for his service. He explained that it was unusual to see foreign fighters arrive with their own weapons. Harvath told him that he had been training soldiers in Lviv before deciding to join troops at the front. It wasn’t the best lie, but it seemed to satisfy the man.
When they pulled up to the station, the driver opened his glove box, removed a yellow-and-blue armband, and handed it to him. “As long as you’re carrying weapons, you’ll want to wear this,” he said. “At least until they issue you a uniform.”
Harvath slipped the band over his arm, thanked the man, and climbed out of the ambulance.
Standing on the curb, he watched as the man drove away, back to the horror of the train attack. He knew all too well what sifting through the wreckage for human remains was going to be like.
Whether or not the phrase was uttered by Plato, Santayana, or General Sherman, war truly was hell. It burned and blistered and ripped and scarred everyone it touched. As was so often said, only the dead know the end of war.
Entering the “Stalin’s empire”–style, yellow-and-white railway station, Harvath observed the trickle of people making their way through. Pre-conflict, it would have been a lively location bustling with travelers. These days it was a dangerous place to linger. The station had been targeted repeatedly by the Russians.
The tinge of history, that feeling of having romantically traveled back in time, that he had experienced when boarding the overnight train in Poland was gone. Now, looking at the stacks of charred sandbags, the walls pockmarked by shrapnel, and the gaping holes blasted through the roof above, it felt as if he were approaching the gates of hell themselves.
He found his new contact, a tall, blond woman in her twenties, standing at the counter in an empty café just off the arrivals hall.
She was attractive and had taken the time to do her makeup. He couldn’t tell if it was out of pride, defiance, or because she was shuttling an American to the front and saw it as a reason to get done up. On the counter next to her was an old Ken Follett paperback.
Harvath stood nearby and ordered an espresso. Looking down at her book, he spoke the phrase Artem had given him: “The Pillars of the Earth is his best book.”
“I prefer his more contemporary novels,” she replied. “Eye of the Needle is the best.”
With the sign and countersign delivered and their bona fides established, he extended his hand. “Harvath.”
“Zira,” she said, shaking it. “I heard about the attack. What happened to your escort?”
“One didn’t make it and the other is in the hospital.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Did you know them?” he asked.
She shook her head. “The GUR is a large organization. But regardless, I am saddened every time I hear someone has been killed or injured. The operative in the hospital, is he expected to make it?”
“He is,” Harvath replied.
“Good,” said Zira, removing some money and paying for their coffees. “We should get moving. Do you have any bags?”
With his Galil slung across his shoulder, Harvath patted the rest of the gear he was carrying and said, “This is all I have.”
The GUR woman gathered up her change and asked, “What about your papers? You won’t get very far without them.”
Knowing that if he had to hurriedly grab his equipment he might not be coming back, Harvath had wisely tucked his important documents, as well as the cash and some other items, into the zippered compartment of his chest rig. Removing his orders, he showed them to her.
Satisfied, she folded the papers and handed them back to him. “I’m parked outside,” she said. “Follow me.”
Her vehicle was a beat-up, forest-green Toyota Land Cruiser from the late 1990s. It had been outfitted with a snorkel, a bully bar, and a roof rack, as well as a dual jerry can holder, which at the moment only had one gas can in it.
The interior wasn’t much to look at, either. Rips in the stained cloth seats had been mended with different colors and types of tape. The header was torn and the rear left passenger door panel cover was missing. It smelled like stale cigarettes and spilled diesel. Letting his rifle hang in front of him, Harvath cracked the window as soon as he got in and shut his door.
“Hungry?” she asked as she pulled out of the lot and reached behind her seat for a greasy paper bag.
“What is it?”
“Varenyky,” she replied. “Dumplings. They’re probably not very warm, but they’re still good. There’s also bottled water in back.”
Harvath thanked her, grabbed a bottle of water, and helped himself to a couple of the dumplings.
The filling tasted like it was made from liver and fried onions. He had eaten much, much worse in his career and was grateful for the sustenance.
As they left the city center, he noticed that they were headed to the north. “I thought we were supposed to head east to meet the team.”
“There’s been a change of plans,” she replied. “The base where they were waiting has taken heavy shelling. We believe it’s still under observation and not safe. They’re going to meet us at a safe house outside the city instead.”
The woman exhibited a small facial cue that he had been taught to pick up on. Under duress, such as when lying, people revealed certain microexpressions. Was she lying?
He couldn’t be sure. In war, everyone was under duress. And that duress often lived on as PTSD. Nevertheless, his Spidey sense was awake and tingling. As they drove, he remained on guard.
What he saw through the windshield was unbelievable. The amount of destruction Kharkiv had suffered was next level. Peshkov had thrown everything he had at the city. From hypersonic missiles to flesh-melting “thermite rain” bombs, he hadn’t held anything back.
Building after building had been reduced to rubble and the streets were lined with the blackened husks of burned-out cars. It looked like something out of a postapocalyptic zombie movie.
But then, for every razed apartment block or those with their façades sheared away, exposing the dwellings inside like some macabre, life-sized dollhouse, there were other structures that had survived without a scratch, completely intact. There was absolutely no rhyme or reason to it. Just pure luck.
And as bad as the inside of the Land Cruiser smelled, the outside—through Harvath’s open window—was even worse. The air smelled like fire and death and despair. In short, it smelled like war.
As they got to the outskirts of the city, the ruins of Russian tanks and armored personnel carriers could be seen, reminders of Moscow’s countless attempts to take the city. Ukraine’s ability to repel the invaders again and again was a testament to both their spirit and the Kremlin’s pathological hubris.
Though Kharkiv boasted one and a half million inhabitants, it went from urban to rural very quickly.
Before Harvath knew it, they had left the paved city behind and were driving down a forested dirt road. The breeze coming through his window was much cleaner, fresher.
