Black List (7 page)
In the post-9/11 world, quality, timely intelligence, and the ability to act on that intelligence were paramount. Deeply concerned with the entrenched bureaucracy at the CIA and the hobbling of the nation’s defense apparatus, the Carlton Group had been established to boldly do what the nation’s politically correct, vote-chasing politicians and cowering cover-your-ass bureaucrats were too timid and too inept to attempt.
It was based on the Office of Strategic Services, or OSS, the wartime intelligence agency that had preceded the CIA, and the modus operandi of the Apex Project was quite similar. In addition to the group’s intelligence-gathering mandate, Carlton, or the Old Man, as he was known, had assembled a small group of operatives with specialized military and intelligence experience to carry out “direct action” assignments.
Operating under the simple charter of “Find, fix, and finish,” Carlton had offered Harvath a position identifying terrorist leadership, tracking
or luring them to a specific location and then capturing or killing as many of them as possible. Harvath would then be expected to use any intelligence gleaned to plan and execute the next assignment. The goal was to apply constant pressure to the terrorist networks and pound them so hard that they were forever rocked back on their heels, unable to even take a step forward. Harvath had accepted the job on the spot.
Carlton spent the next year personally training him, putting Harvath through the most comprehensive intelligence training he had ever experienced. In essence, Carlton distilled what he had learned throughout his career in the espionage world and drilled it into Harvath.
On top of the intelligence training, Harvath was expected to keep his counterterrorism skills razor sharp. He took classes in Israeli and Russian hand-to-hand combat, and continually updated his training in firearms, driving, and foreign languages.
He made excellent progress and despite having leapt the fence from his thirties into his forties, was in the best shape of his life. All his training had been to prepare him for any eventuality, but what happened in Paris had stunned him to the core.
Riley Turner had been an incredible operative. She was one of the first recruits the U.S. Army had approached for its elite, all-female Delta Force unit, code-named the Athena Project. He had worked with her on a handful of occasions and respected her skill and expertise. He had also been attracted to her but tried to keep things professional between them.
Years ago, he had resigned himself to the fact that in order for the American dream to exist, someone had to protect it. He understood that he was one of those people and that by protecting the American dream for others, he had to forgo a certain portion of it for himself, namely his personal life. He had been okay with that. The world was made up of good people who needed sheepdogs to keep the wolves at bay. Harvath had been a sheepdog ever since he was in grade school and had defended the developmentally impaired boy next door from the neighborhood bullies. Being a sheepdog was what he was good at. It gave him a sense of purpose. But he still wanted purpose beyond simply being a sheepdog. He wanted a family.
Even though he dragged a string of unsuccessful relationships behind
him like cans strung to a bumper, he hadn’t given up looking for the right person; someone who understood who he was, why he did what he did, and who could live with all of it. He had wondered if Riley Turner might be that person and had decided that the next time he saw her, he was going to begin to find out. With a heavy heart, he realized that opportunity now would never come.
Disembarking from the train in the seaside resort town of Hendaye, Harvath tried to put those thoughts out of his mind and focus on his next step.
If it were evening, he might have stolen a car from one of the hotel parking lots, relatively secure that the theft wouldn’t be reported until the next morning, if not days later, when the hotel guest finally asked for it. But it was 7:30 a.m., and he needed a better plan.
Walking to an adjacent station, he bought coffee and something to eat before boarding a Basque commuter train that carried him across the border into Spain.
In Irún, he caught the bus to Bilbao, a city he knew from having been there over the summer. He found a small hotel in the city’s medieval Casco Viejo neighborhood and, after presenting his Italian passport for identification, paid in cash for two nights. He had no idea if he would need the room that long, but at least he had it.
After showering and changing into new clothes he had bought en route, he left to surveil his target.
It was warmer in Bilbao than it had been in Paris, too warm to be wearing a jacket. Harvath was grateful to have Riley’s backpack. Not only could he carry all of his possessions with him at all times but he didn’t have to worry about having to walk around with an untucked shirt, beneath which his weapon might print through.
Designed by Camelbak for the Special Operations community, the pack had a hidden handgun compartment at the small of the wearer’s back. It was an ingenious design that allowed him quick access to his weapon while he looked like just another tourist and blended right in.
To round out his look, he picked up a guidebook in Italian and a map of the city, both of which he consulted repeatedly as he strolled the neighborhood’s popular Siete Calles, or Seven Streets, conducting his SDR.
Behind the cathedral on the Calle de la Tendería he walked into a small Basque restaurant and chose the same table he had taken on his previous trip, two back from the window, and sat down.
Making himself comfortable, he glanced over the menu and ordered some food. There was no telling how long it was going to be before, or if, the tobacconist would make his move.
B
ecause of the tobacconist’s age, Harvath had counted on his being a traditional Spaniard who still observed the siesta. The man didn’t disappoint.
Harvath watched as he closed up his shop, tucked a newspaper under his arm, lit a cigarette, and began walking.
At this time of day, there were plenty of people about, and he didn’t need to work hard to avoid being seen. He hung far enough behind that if the man should happen to glance back, he wouldn’t notice him among the throngs of people up and down the narrow street.
Having dealt very briefly with the man before, Harvath had pegged him as a very low level operative, and even that might have been entirely too generous a characterization.
He watched as the tobacconist continued on his way, passing up opportunity after opportunity to ascertain whether he was being followed. He was definitely not a professional.
He hoped that the man lived within walking distance of his place of business. If he took public transportation or had a car parked somewhere that he intended to drive home for siesta, it was going to put Harvath in a difficult situation.
Two blocks later, the man turned left and a block after that, Harvath
realized he had been given a gift. Leaning out a second-story window was a buxom woman with flaming red hair. She looked half the tobacconist’s age. Seductively, she blew him a kiss as he approached. Harvath had a pretty good feeling she wasn’t the man’s wife.
Slowing his pace, he removed his city map and pretended to study it as the tobacconist entered the building and disappeared. Ten minutes later, Harvath went in after him.
The locks were easy enough for him to pick, and once inside the small apartment, he quietly made his way toward the sounds of lovemaking from the bedroom.
He stood in the doorway for a moment waiting to be noticed, and then finally cleared his throat.
Looking over and seeing Harvath, the woman shrieked and clutched the sheet to her chin as she rolled off her partner, leaving the tobacconist completely naked.
Before he could find something to cover himself with, he saw Harvath’s pistol and his look of anger shifted to fear. He told the woman in Spanish to shut up.
“Callate. Cierra la boca!”
The man gestured at the bedspread, asking if he could cover himself and the woman. Harvath nodded and said, “Go ahead. Slowly.”
“Englishman? American?” the tobacconist asked in heavily accented English.
Harvath ignored his question. “You don’t remember me?”
The tobacconist studied him for a moment. “No.”
“I bought some cigarettes from you over the summer.”
The man smiled. “Señor, I sell cigarettes to tourists all day long.”
“These were ETA cigarettes,” he said, referring to the Basque separatist organization. “I was told to ask for your Argos and Draco brand.”
Whether the man recognized the pass phrase or not, he couldn’t be quite sure, but there was an unmistakable microexpression that flashed across the man’s face. It was a subtle “tell” that Harvath had been taught to look for in the Secret Service. It indicated when a person was under duress because they were not telling the truth or intended to do harm.
“I don’t sell any ETA cigarettes and certainly none with that name. I think you have made a mistake.”
Harvath saw the tell again. “I don’t think so. I was told to see you and only you. When I asked for that brand, you sold me a pack of cigarettes. Inside was a car key and an address to a garage not far from here.”
The woman, who had been staring at Harvath, must have understood enough English to figure out what was being said as she turned to him and asked,
“Eso cierto?”
The tobacconist ignored her and motioned with his head toward his cigarettes on the nightstand. Harvath nodded that it was okay.
He removed a cigarette from the pack, lit it up, and adjusted the pillows behind him with his elbow before sitting up and taking a deep drag. “I do favors sometimes.”
“I know you do. And now I need a favor.”
The man shrugged. “How can I possibly do you a favor?”
“After you sold me the cigarettes and I left your shop, two men followed me.”
“
Two men?
What two men?”
Harvath described the pair and their very distinct features.
The tobacconist’s eyes went wide.
“It’s you.”
“So you do remember me.”
“Those men were very angry for what you did.”
“That’s not my problem,” replied Harvath. “Right now, you’re going to contact their boss for me.”
The tobacconist grimaced and drew in a deep breath. “He was not happy with what you did to the men.”
Harvath raised his weapon and pointed it at the man’s forehead. “There’s only one person’s happiness you should be concerned with at this moment and that’s the guy holding this gun.”
The tobacconist raised his hands in self-defense. “I don’t have contact with him. He calls me.”
Harvath noticed the wedding ring on the man’s hand. “Does your wife know where you are right now?”
“Ay, dios mio,”
said the woman as she launched into a tirade about not wanting his wife to find out.
“Cierra la boca!”
he ordered once more before turning to Harvath and saying, “As I told you, I do not know how to make contact. But there is someone else I know who can get a message to him.”
Harvath lowered his weapon. “Do either of you have a car?”
The man looked at his paramour, then back at Harvath, and nodded.
“Good,” Harvath replied. “Both of you get dressed. We’re going for a drive.”
P
arked alongside a narrow country road outside Bilbao, Harvath allowed his two guests to get out of the car. Removing the keys from the ignition, Harvath slid them into his pocket.
The tobacconist lit up another cigarette while his mistress spread a blanket on the grass. Before leaving her apartment, Harvath had suggested she bring along something to eat. The people they were waiting for wouldn’t be in any hurry to get here.
It was pretty basic fare as far as picnics were concerned, which was understandable considering the hasty circumstances in which it was thrown together. The woman had brought bread, cheese, a few apples, and some sausage. She had also brought a plastic bottle filled with homemade wine, which Harvath declined.
He had no idea what the tobacconist had said to her, but she had lost her apprehension and had even tried to smile at Harvath once or twice. He wasn’t in the mood and didn’t return the gesture.