Dead fall, p.27
Dead Fall, page 27
Inside was a table full of family photographs. The house appeared to belong to a family of four—a mom, a dad, and two twin daughters about four or five years old. The father was in a wheelchair.
They did a quick sweep of the house. Everything had been ransacked—drawers pulled out of dressers, chests upended, even the medicine cabinet had been hit.
Exiting the house, Harvath pulled the list of hidden Ukrainian art from the pocket in his chest rig.
“What kind of art were these guys protecting?” asked Krueger as he saw him reading.
“Three oil paintings,” he replied, showing him pictures. “Landscapes by artists named Ivan Pokhitonov, Georgy Kurnakov, and Pyotr Sokolov.”
“There’s only one place we haven’t cleared,” said Biscuit.
Harvath nodded. “The cellars. That’s our next stop.”
* * *
The entrance was marked by a pair of large wooden doors with thick bands of metal and knobby metal rivets. They were set into the side of a hill behind the vintner’s house and looked like they were a thousand years old.
With Biscuit on one door and Jacks on the other, Harvath, Hookah, and Krueger steadied their weapons and prepared to make entry. When Harvath nodded, the men pulled back the doors.
A tunnel, carved out of the rock, led down beneath the hill. Cautiously, they made their way inside.
It appeared to be a limestone cave system of some sort that had been enlarged and improved over the years. A sensor picked up their presence and automatically switched the lights on.
Harvath hated tunnels. They were bullet funnels, often with no place to hide or take cover. Picking up the pace, he moved as rapidly as good tactical procedure would allow.
The tunnel bent to the left and opened into a large cavern stacked with wine barrels. Up ahead, beyond the barrels, Harvath could see a body.
They worked quickly but methodically toward it, making sure it hadn’t been placed there as bait and that no one was hiding in the barrels along their path.
When they got to the body, Harvath saw the wheelchair close by and knew who the deceased was. Someone had stuck a shotgun in the man’s mouth and had pulled the trigger.
On the other side of the room was the naked corpse of the man’s wife. She had been tied between two barrels and her throat had been sliced. He had no doubt that she had been sexually violated. And when he saw the empty, specially insulated barrels that had been used to hide the paintings, he knew who had done it.
Being underground, the cellar maintained a constant temperature. Harvath removed his glove and touched the woman’s skin. It was cool, practically cold. He checked for rigor mortis, which had already begun to set in. She could have been dead for a good three to six hours. Maybe even more.
All he knew was that had he and his team arrived sooner, they might have been able to stop this, and that pissed Harvath off. Orphans, nuns, and a man in a wheelchair: the Ravens were absolute animals.
Harvath had no idea of the whereabouts of the couple’s twin daughters, seen in the photos back at the house. He prayed to God that they hadn’t been present for their parents’ brutal murders.
The men spent several minutes sweeping the various subterranean side rooms but found nothing. The Ravens had come, they had gone, and there was no telling where they would appear next. Nothing of any value had been left behind.
Walking back up the tunnel, they exited the double doors and took a deep, pained breath of fresh air.
Jacks and Biscuit could read the expression on their colleagues’ faces.
“How bad was it?” the young Canadian asked.
“Terrible,” replied Krueger.
“They killed the husband and the wife,” Hookah stated. “The guy was in a wheelchair, and they fucking killed him.”
Jacks looked at Harvath, who shook his head and said, “It’s a horror show down there. Not sure how quickly they ended it for the husband, but they definitely made the wife suffer. I’ve seen a lot of gruesome things in my time, but what the Ravens are doing is…” His voice trailed off as he sensed something to their left.
“Movement left,” he stated, raising his rifle and turning in the direction of the threat. “Ten o’clock.”
As the men all took cover and adjusted their weapons, Harvath flipped down his thermal vision and powered it up.
When the image came on line, he could see the heat signature of a lone figure attempting to use the brush for cover. The figure did not appear to be armed.
“I count one person,” he said. “Doesn’t appear to be armed—at least, not with a long gun. I don’t think it’s a hostile.”
“Could it be a local?” asked Jacks. “Someone from the village?”
“Let’s find out,” Harvath replied. Raising his voice so it could be heard by the person in the trees, he called out using the term for bread, “Palianytsia!”
A few moments later, a shout came back. It was a woman’s voice. “Palianytsia!” she replied. “Khto ty?”
She was speaking Ukrainian, but the phrase sounded almost identical to Kto ty?—the Russian words for Who are you?
“Amerikantsy,” Harvath shouted back. “Mezhdunarodny Legion.” Americans. International Legion.
“Ne strelyayte,” she said, now in Russian, as she headed in his direction with her hands raised. Don’t shoot.
“Dvigat’sya medlenno,” Harvath cautioned her. Move slowly.
When the woman got close enough, Harvath let his weapon hang from its sling and quickly patted her down while his men kept her in their sights.
Whisps of white hair protruded from beneath her babushka. She was seventy years old if she was a day. Her body was bent and her deeply creased face was worn and weather-beaten. She had a million questions for Harvath, and they all came tumbling out at once.
Despite speaking in Russian, she was upset and talking too fast. He had to ask her to not only slow down, but also to simplify her questions and make them easier for him to understand.
The first question was about the family who lived at the winery. Where were they? He told her that the man and the woman had been killed.
Once again, she grew upset and very agitated. What about the twins? The little girls? What happened to them?
Harvath shook his head and told her he didn’t know. They hadn’t seen any sign of anyone else. The thought that the Ravens might have taken the two little girls and might have been doing God knows what to them made bile rise in his throat.
The old woman was also distraught and Harvath guided her toward a bench and helped her sit down.
After giving her a moment to collect herself, he asked her to tell him what had taken place. As she spoke, he did his best to translate for the team.
“Bad men came. Painted devils. Those who could escape came to the hills. There are lots of caves here. This is where she and a handful of others have been hiding.”
“Painted devils?” Hookah repeated.
Harvath asked the old woman to explain. When she was done speaking, he said to his team, “Several of the men had their faces painted to look like skulls.”
Hookah looked at him. “Are you serious?”
“Are you surprised?” Biscuit broke in. “Those Ravens are sick fucks.”
Harvath agreed. “You’re not wrong,” he said as he turned back to the old woman, and they continued speaking.
As she laid out what had happened, he translated: “They came through this afternoon. Many trucks. Another villager, who had seen them coming, had sent a warning.
“When the men arrived, half went toward the winery, while the other half started looting homes. The villagers who had escaped to the caves barely made it out in time.
“Most of those who remained behind—friends, family, and neighbors—had been taken to the far end of the village and shot.
“A few, who had enclosed themselves in hidden spaces inside their homes, had described how the painted devils had gone through kitchens, dining rooms, and bathrooms looking for alcohol and medicines.”
When Harvath pressed the old woman on any identifying characteristics, beyond the painted faces, she said there was one item all of the men had in common.
“On each of their uniforms, there was a patch,” Harvath translated. “The head of a large, black bird—a raven.”
“Did anyone notice anything else?” asked Krueger. “Maybe which direction they went when they left?”
Harvath asked, but the woman shook her head.
“Is she sure?” Krueger pressed. “Someone must have seen something. Maybe someone overheard a Raven talking. Ask her again. Better yet, let’s get the rest of them out here and we can ask them one by one.”
“You’re pissing up a rope,” said Hookah, exasperated and wanting his colleague to drop it. “They were terrified. All they cared about was staying alive. If they had any actionable intelligence, they would have given it to us.”
The man was right. They had been terrified and their number one focus had been on staying alive, but Harvath realized that the woman had indeed given them a piece of actionable intelligence.
Removing his map again, he illuminated it with his flashlight and asked her to point out the village that had alerted them that the Ravens were headed their way. She did.
He then asked her how they had communicated. Via cell phone, she informed him. And, before that, had another village warned them? he asked. Probably, the woman replied. We all stay in touch to help each other. At that point, he only had one more question.
When she answered yes, he offered her his arm, helped her up, and began to lead her back to the vintner’s residence.
“What’s going on?” Jacks asked. “Did she come up with something?”
Harvath nodded. “It turns out, she’s got access to a very special and very valuable piece of technology.”
“What kind of technology?”
“A bush telegraph.”
CHAPTER 27
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The Speaker of the House was hard enough to get on a weekday. On the weekends, it was practically impossible, which was why Greg Wilson had to put an incredible piece of bait on the hook. Actually, two pieces.
To get the Speaker to cancel his Saturday evening plans, Wilson had needed to offer him something better. That something was dinner at D.C.’s hottest and most difficult to get into restaurant—Minibar. And Wilson hadn’t just gotten them a table at the two-Michelin-starred avant-garde eatery, he had gotten the table.
The private dining room just off the kitchen would allow them to speak freely while also enjoying a one-of-a-kind, experimental tasting menu that was renowned for fusing art and science.
The fact that they would be eating kitty-corner to the FBI’s headquarters and only a couple of doors down from Ford’s Theatre—where Abraham Lincoln had been shot—amused Wilson.
At one point, he had held both Lincoln and the Bureau in the highest regard. But that was the old Greg. The new Greg Wilson was post-American.
He had severed all emotional and psychological ties with the United States. It was just another country to him now; a means to a ten-million-dollar nest egg and a new passport.
To that end, his handler had offered him a sweetener—a bonus of sorts, to help get him to his goal even faster.
Before parting ways in Boston, Nistal had given him a new set of instructions. It was coming from the top and his bosses wanted to see results quickly. If Wilson could make things happen, he’d receive an additional $500,000, deposited into the bank account of his choice, anywhere in the world.
It was a generous incentive and one that Wilson intended to collect on as quickly as possible. He had no intention of spending another winter in D.C., or America for that matter. When he closed his eyes, he could almost taste the frothy blender drinks, smell the tanning oil, and see all the lithe female bodies along the beach. There had only been one hitch.
The Speaker wanted to bring his second-in-command, the House Majority Leader, who was responsible for helping set the legislative agenda and implementing policy. The man was an equally craven politician, so Wilson hadn’t been averse to it. Then, because of how hot the restaurant was, the men had insisted on bringing their wives. It put Wilson in a tough spot.
Ever the negotiator, he amiably encouraged the women’s attendance, with the caveat that after dinner they would retire next door to the restaurant’s cocktail lounge, at which point the men could be left to talk business.
With the terms agreed to, the attendees met and had a fabulous meal. From the caviar-infused wagyu tartare to the steamed mussels, complete with shells made from frozen squid ink, which were designed to be eaten whole, the experience not only lived up to the restaurant’s reputation but exceeded their expectations.
Once the wives had adjourned for their nightcaps, the men ordered digestifs and the conversation shifted.
“I’ve got to be honest,” said the Majority Leader, taking in the expensive restaurant and glasses of Hennessy Paradis cognac that had been placed on the table in front of them, “I really felt for you when you lost your primary, Greg. But you totally landed on your feet. This is not a bad way to be living.”
The Speaker agreed. “Yup. You got hit by a bus, but it was a twenty-four-karat-gold bus.”
Wilson forced a smile. “I’m doing all right. But don’t fool yourselves. You guys, up on the Hill, are where the action is. That’s the center of the universe.”
“Six more months would have changed everything for you,” the Majority Leader stated. “Hell, three months and the voters’ opinions would have changed. Nobody cares about sex scandals anymore. You were the last casualty of that war.”
“Now,” the Speaker said with a laugh, “all that matters is how hard you pound the other side. All our constituents care about is that we’re fighting. They want it nonstop, twenty-four/seven.”
“And if we don’t have anything to fight about, then we need to create something,” the Majority Leader added. “We expanded our entire communications department to bring on savvier, more aggressive social media warriors. As we like to say, ‘If you can’t meme, there’s no space on the team.’ ”
Wilson wasn’t surprised to hear that Congress had devolved into an even worse form of theater since he had lost his seat.
“There is one thing that has really surprised me,” the Speaker stated. “You have no idea how much the small-dollar donations have exploded. I mean, they’ve gone absolutely stratospheric.
“It used to be that you could really only count on small donations from voters in your district. But now, if you have a good fight with a witness during a hearing, or a good fight with an opposing member on your committee, and it goes viral, the donations pour in from across the country.
“We actually bring in media trainers to teach our freshman members how to ID these moments and maximize them. It’s a license to print the easiest money you have ever seen in your life.”
This also didn’t surprise Wilson. In fact, it was one of the least shocking things he’d heard in a long time. The other side did the same thing with their voters. It all came down to one simple political maxim—the base makes the case.
Districts these days looked like they were drawn by someone having a seizure while holding a broken crayon. They were gerrymandered so that the party in control of that district remained in control. That meant that if your party was in charge, you had to appeal to those people who voted in the primaries, which was the base. If you won your primary, you were all but guaranteed to win the general election. It was, however, a deal with the devil.
Once you were in power, you had to continue to serve that base—no matter what it wanted—if you wanted to be reelected.
It could be unreasonable fiscal policies, outlandish environmental policies, or absolutely insane conspiracy theories—once you bought the ticket, you had no choice but to take the ride.
And if you ran afoul of the base—for example, by trying to demonstrate to them why a policy was better for the country in the long run, even if it meant giving up an opportunity to score points against the opposing political team—you were toast.
The base makes the case. What they want goes. As French politician Ledru-Rollin once said, “There go the people. I must follow them, for I am their leader.”
It was, of course, corrosive for the body politic and a recipe for unmitigated disaster. If your immune system was constantly at war with itself, there was no way it would ever be able to fight off a hostile foreign invader. Wilson chalked it up as yet another reason he was glad to be getting out.
Steering the conversation to why he had shelled out several thousand dollars for this dinner, he said, “What’s the next session shaping up to look like? Or is that going to depend upon what memes are trending?”
Both men chuckled.
Swirling the cognac in his glass, the Speaker replied, “I refer to it as our three-legged stool. Subpoenas. Investigations. And wall-to-wall media coverage.”
“All circuses and no bread?”
“We’re also working on the bread part, but that’s not why you booked us the hottest table in town. What can we do for you? Or should I say, what can we do for the Paulsen Family Foundation?”
Wilson smiled, as did the Speaker and the Majority Leader. They could talk about small-dollar donations all day long, and they were substantial, but the real power still resided with the wealthy megadonors.
“It’s funny you should mention them,” said Wilson. “I was just up in Maine visiting with Mr. and Mrs. Paulsen this morning.”
“I bet that house is amazing,” the Majority Leader stated.
“If it’s half as nice as their ranch in Jackson Hole,” the Speaker replied, “it would put all of Georgetown to shame.”
“It’s impressive,” the ex-Senator said. “The views alone are worth the trip. But I’m glad you mentioned the ranch.”
“Yes. They were very kind to let us use it for our retreat. That place is like a world-class resort. Please thank them again for all of us.”
