Dead fall, p.5
Dead Fall, page 5
Instead, he focused on Podwale’s extensive whiskey selection. After studying the list, he ordered a Laphroaig, checked his watch, and settled back. Sølvi’s flight wouldn’t land for a few more hours still.
It felt good to relax. Really relax. The whole time he had been in Bucharest, there’d been an underlying tension. It was like purgatory. He was on the bubble and could be called up at any moment and sent into action, yet no call ever came.
But now, here in Warsaw and waiting for Sølvi to show up, it felt like he was on a vacation of sorts. He could let his guard down, just a little bit, and think of things other than work. It was healthy and, despite whatever consequences might await him once the weekend was over, he was glad to have orchestrated this little personal, covert operation.
When the waitress delivered his drink, he thanked her and took a sip. It had a smokey taste with a nice, long finish. The warmth of it going down only served to put him deeper into relaxation mode.
He was taking his second sip when the app on his phone pinged with an encrypted text. It was from one of his colleagues in Northern Virginia, except the man didn’t appear to be back in the U.S. The text read: Just arrived. We need to meet.
Fuck was the first word that popped into Harvath’s mind. Setting his whiskey down, he typed back: Where are you?
Not far.
If the guy was standing around waiting for him to touch down in Bucharest, he’d better have a comfortable place to sit. It was going to be a long wait.
Harvath was about to explain that he had taken off for the weekend, when another text came in. It was a map of Warsaw with a digital pin placed near the zoo on the other side of the Vistula River.
Harvath didn’t know why the office had come looking for him, but they had found him. Whatever was going on, sending someone in person meant that it was serious.
Downing his drink, he left some cash on the table and exited the bar. He had a bad feeling that his vacation was about to come to an abrupt end and an even worse feeling about what was to follow.
CHAPTER 4
Making certain that he wasn’t being followed, Harvath hopped the tram and rode across the Slasko-Dabrowski Bridge. At Praski Park, he got off and walked the rest of the way to No. 8 Florianska Street on foot.
It was a tasteful, French-style apartment building of creamy white stone, topped with a copper roof that had weathered to a fine verdigris. Finding the name on the directory he had been instructed to look for, he pressed the corresponding button. Seconds later a buzzer sounded and the door unlocked.
A fully exposed, ornate, wrought-iron elevator anchored the lobby of polished marble. Its cage was inset with stained glass panels and reminded Harvath of the Grand Hotel in Mexico City.
As attractive as it was, he opted for the stairs. Elevators could be death traps—especially if the wrong people knew you were coming.
On the fourth floor, he made his way down the hall to a pair of large, oak doors and knocked. A scurry of noises from the other side told him that the man he was here to see wasn’t alone.
There was the sound of heavy breathing as the lock was turned. Then, as soon as the door was opened, the two enormous, white dogs were upon him.
Harvath smiled as he scratched the animals along their throats and behind their ears.
The little man who owned them allowed it to go on for a few more minutes before calling his Caucasian Ovcharkas—Argos and Draco—back into the apartment.
Harvath followed, closing and locking the door behind him. The two men then warmly shook hands. “It’s good to see you, Nick.”
“You too,” the little man replied.
Standing under three feet tall, he had a condition known as primordial dwarfism. The dogs were not only constant, loyal companions, but also his protectors who zealously guarded him.
Known to intelligence agencies around the world simply as the “Troll,” to his friends the little man was known as Nicholas. He had started out as one of Harvath’s greatest foes, but over time, as he had backed away from trafficking in the purchase and sale of highly classified and sensitive information, he and Harvath had developed both a deep personal and professional relationship.
Harvath had personally brought Nicholas on board at the Carlton Group, vouching for him and giving him a fresh start; a chance to be part of something good, something bigger than himself. And while there had rightly been suspicion over the little man’s loyalties, he had more than proven his worth to the organization and to the United States government.
Now, here he was, in Warsaw. Harvath had more than a few questions. Pointing at the ceiling and other places as they walked into the living room, he asked, “Is it safe to talk?”
Nicholas nodded. “This is one of the few local safe houses the Russians don’t know about. The CIA swept it this morning. Let me start out by saying, good job on Operation Boathouse. It was a solid hit. Everyone back home is pleased.”
“Glad to hear it,” he replied, then changed gears. “Since I’m using my own cell phone, credit cards, and rescheduled my flight back to Bucharest, I’m not going to ask how you found me, but I am going to ask what you’re doing here. We could have debriefed over secure video.”
“True,” the little man replied as he approached a brass liquor cart, “but I wanted to talk in person. Drink?”
“Why? Am I going to need one?”
Nicholas nodded. “I think so,” he said, opening a bottle of Polish brandy for himself and pouring some into a snifter.
Harvath was uncomfortable with where this might be headed, but accepted his advice, filled a glass with two fingers of bourbon, and took a seat on the couch.
The apartment smelled like stale cigarettes and too many warm days with the windows never having been opened.
After giving the dogs the command to lie down, Nicholas joined him. Placing two folders on the coffee table, he climbed up onto the couch.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his snifter.
“What are we drinking to?”
The little man thought for a moment and replied, “To a strong stomach.”
Harvath didn’t like the sound of that, either, but clinked glasses with his friend anyway. “Cheers.”
Once they each had taken a sip, he returned to asking questions. “Let’s not pull any more punches. Why are you here? What do we need to talk about in person?”
“We need to talk about what’s in those,” said Nicholas, pointing at the folders.
“Do they have anything to do with why I’ve been cooling my heels in Bucharest?”
The little man nodded.
Okay, Harvath thought. At least we are getting somewhere. “Which one should I open first?”
Nicholas pointed to the one on the left.
Setting down his drink, Harvath picked up the folder, opened it, and began reading.
As he read, Nicholas filled in some background. “Since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, twenty-six American citizens have been killed. Fourteen of them have died fighting alongside Ukrainian forces, four have died of non-combat-related injuries, and the remaining eight—six aid workers, plus two journalists—were either tortured to death or summarily executed by Russian forces.”
The little man had been right to suggest they toast to strong stomachs. The photographs, especially those of the aid workers who had been tortured to death, were particularly hard to look at. Nicholas seemed to be reading his mind.
“Horrific doesn’t even begin to cover it. That’s the reason you’ve been on hold in Romania,” he said. “The White House has been chomping at the bit to respond, but gathering any sort of actionable intelligence inside Ukraine has been next to impossible. An even greater problem are the diplomatic and political ramifications of putting any sort of boots on the ground.
“Contributing weapons systems, ammunition, and other types of matériel is one thing. If, however, the U.S. sends in troops, we’ll be in a hot war with Russia that’ll suck in our NATO allies and go global within weeks, if not days. The Pentagon believes China would use it as an opportunity to take Taiwan, Iran will move against Israel and possibly Saudi Arabia, while a multitude of other simmering conflicts would flare and the likelihood of nuclear weapons being unleashed would rise to levels not even seen during the height of the Cold War.”
“So, the answer is we do nothing else?” Harvath replied. “We wait until it’s over, hope Ukraine wins, and only then launch a global manhunt for those responsible and drag them to The Hague for war crimes tribunals? It took the Israelis almost fifteen years to hunt down Adolf Eichmann.”
Nicholas shook his head. “That’s not what we’re talking about. You need to keep in mind that there are not only international factors at stake here, but domestic ones as well. Sixty-eight percent of American voters still believe it’s important for Congress to keep aid flowing to Ukraine.”
“That’s a great number,” Harvath interjected. “When’s the last time seven out of ten Americans agreed on anything?”
“I’m with you, but that’s not the only number the White House is watching. In the spring, only twelve percent of voters thought the U.S. was doing too much to help Ukraine. In the eight months since, that number has doubled to twenty-four percent and it has got Washington worried.”
“Russia, unprovoked, invaded a sovereign nation.”
Nicholas put up his hands. “Moscow claims it was in response to Ukraine getting too cozy with NATO.”
“The Russian President loves to blame everything on NATO expansion,” Harvath responded. “Finland and Sweden have both now decided to join NATO because of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. But we haven’t heard so much as a peep out of the Kremlin. If Peshkov was so concerned about NATO invading Russia, why hasn’t he reinforced his border with Finland? In fact, he’s done just the opposite. He pulled Russian troops away from the border with Finland, as well as with the other Baltic NATO member states, in order to reinforce his operations in Ukraine.
“And what makes his NATO excuse even more ridiculous is the fact that the Ukrainians informed Moscow that they were willing to rule out any future NATO membership in order to prevent a war. You know what President Peshkov did? He turned them down cold. The man is insane. He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Peter the Great. His invasion of Ukraine is about one thing and one thing only—imperial conquest and his desire to go down in history as the person who put the old Russian Empire back together again. Fuck that guy.”
“Considering your history with him,” Nicholas replied, “I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”
“I should have killed him when I had the chance. If I had known this was coming, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. The Ukrainian people have a right to decide their own destiny. The Russians don’t have a right to decide it for them. The Russians also don’t have a right to invade Ukraine and rape, maim, torture, and kill their way across the country. And torturing and killing noncombatant Americans, aid workers and journalists no less, is way beyond the pale. Somebody needs to send Peshkov and his thugs in Moscow a message.”
As someone who had grown up in Soviet Georgia, Nicholas shared Harvath’s hatred of Russian brutality. He also had a clear-eyed view of what was going on.
In his estimation, no one had summed it up better than the political scientist and former counselor of the U.S. Department of State Eliot A. Cohen.
What was happening between Russia and Ukraine was a war not only of will and resilience, but also of vitality. Russian President Peshkov was in his seventies, and his Chief of the General Staff—in charge of the war in Ukraine—was only months away from his seventieth birthday. Ukraine’s President and Chief of Staff, on the other hand, were both in their forties.
In Russia, the largest and strongest support for the war was among those old enough to remember, and pine for, the old Soviet Union. On the contrary, in Ukraine support for the war was overwhelming across all age groups. To put it bluntly, it was a Russian invasion led by the aging men of Peshkov’s inner circle against a generation of Ukrainians in their prime.
Among a host of excellent insights, Cohen had one line in particular that had resonated and stuck with Nicholas. What was happening in Ukraine was a war between a calcified society lost in its brutal past and a free society looking toward a decent future. Nicholas couldn’t have said it any better himself.
In hindsight, perhaps he and Harvath shouldn’t have toasted to strong stomachs, but rather to independence—the independence being celebrated outside the windows of the safe house at this very moment by the free people of Poland, as well as the independence that hopefully every man, woman, and child in Ukraine would soon know.
Like Harvath, he also wanted to see more get done, especially when it came to putting the largest dent possible in Russia’s war crimes, which was why he had flown more than four thousand miles to hand Harvath his next mission in person.
Pointing at the second folder on the table, Nicholas said, “Now let’s talk about the rest of the reason I’m here.”
If folder number two was anything like folder number one, Harvath wanted a bit more fortification before diving in.
Picking up his glass, he took another sip of bourbon and then opened the file. He skipped over the reports and went straight to the photos. The impact was like being punched in the face.
It wasn’t the blood that bothered him. He’d seen plenty of blood over his career. It was the bodies. The tiny bodies. Children. All slaughtered. It was gruesome. Harvath felt a tidal wave of rage building inside him.
He had a thing about targeting the defenseless, especially children. People and societies should always be judged by how they treat the weakest among them.
Slowly, he asked, “What happened? Who did this?”
“The photographs were taken at an orphanage in eastern Ukraine. It was attacked by a unit of Russian mercenaries.”
“Wagner?” Harvath replied.
Nicholas nodded.
Harvath had tangled with the Wagner Group before and almost hadn’t survived to tell the tale. They were exceedingly aggressive and absolutely ruthless. But the butchery of women and children? This was beyond barbaric, even for them.
“We believe they’re behind the murder of the six American aid workers,” the little man explained, “as well as the two American journalists.”
“To what end? These guys are all ex–Russian Special Forces. There’s always been at least a little discipline in their ranks.”
“Not anymore. The war has upended everything. Just like the Russian military, Wagner has burned through a ton of men. It’s gotten so bad that they’ve been reduced to recruiting from prisons and insane asylums. Rapists, serial killers, drug addicts—Wagner is taking anyone they can get and promising full pardons in return.”
Harvath was instantly reminded of the Nazis’ Dirlewanger Brigade and all the atrocities that unit committed during the Warsaw Uprising.
“How do we know these are Wagner mercs and not Russian soldiers?”
Nicholas pointed to several of the reports Harvath had flipped past and replied, “As you know, Wagner mercenaries wear a patch on their uniform, usually along their right shoulder, that identifies them as being part of the organization. It depicts a skull, inside a set of crosshairs, with the words ‘Wagner Group’ written in English above and Russian below. In each of our cases, someone recounted seeing the patch.”
“But Wagner makes up, what, at least ten percent of Russian forces fighting in Ukraine? You’re going to need a lot more than that patch to ID the people responsible.”
“What if I told you that we’ve also identified a unit patch?” Nicholas asked.
“I’d say you’ve successfully narrowed down your search to a needle in a field of needle stacks.”
The little man was accustomed to his friend’s occasional sarcasm. Humor, tinged with cynicism, was a sine qua non of maintaining sanity in their business.
“The unit,” he continued, “goes by the name the ‘Ravens’ and uses the bird as their symbol. Its members were initially comprised of prisoners from Russia’s notorious penal colony Number Six, built along the border with Kazakhstan, which dates back to the 1700s.
“Every criminal at Number Six is considered the worst of the worst. From murderers and terrorists to cannibals and child molesters, all are serving life sentences without the possibility of parole.
“Upon arrival, before they even enter the prison, they’re blindfolded so that they can’t make any mental maps that might help facilitate a breakout.
“They’re kept in isolation, each behind three steel doors, and only allowed out for ninety minutes a day to exercise inside a large, iron cage.
“A ‘Raven’ was the nickname given to anyone cunning enough to have ever risked escape and to have successfully broken free.”
“You said the unit was initially comprised of prisoners from penal colony Number Six,” Harvath stated. “What about now?”
“Our intelligence is somewhat limited. From what we’ve been able to pick up, only a few of the original Ravens are still around. Like the rest of the Wagner Group, they have reached deep into other prisons, and even mental asylums.”
“What a fucking nightmare.”
Nicholas gestured toward the folders. “The nightmare would be in letting them continue.”
Harvath didn’t disagree. He held up one of the orphanage photos. “Why show me this? You already had my attention with six dead American aid workers and two dead American journalists.”
“Because there was also an American at the orphanage,” he replied, activating his phone and showing him a picture. “Anna Royko. A twenty-five-year-old attorney from Chicago. She had given up her job to go help in Ukraine.”
“I don’t recognize her,” Harvath said, flipping back through the grisly photos, surprised that he had missed her. “Was she one of the victims?”
“We’re not sure. Her body hasn’t been found. We think they may have taken her.”
