Foreign Agent (33 page)

CHAPTER 74

C
APITAL
H
ILL

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

S
enator Daniel Wells leaned forward and studied the man on the other side of his desk. “Did I stutter?” he asked.

“No,” the Director of Central Intelligence replied. “You did not.”

“Was I speaking in a foreign language?”

Bob McGee rolled his eyes. He’d had it with the arrogant, condescending senator from Iowa. “Let’s cut the crap.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Your agency, Director McGee, launched not one, not two, but three drone strikes inside Syria. While two of those strikes, allegedly, took out the social media capabilities of ISIS and killed many high-ranking ISIS members, including a handful from the Caucasus, you also downed a Russian drone, and diverted DoD assets including one drone and two stealth helicopters from the Iraq theater into Syria. How would you characterize your agency’s actions?”

McGee looked at him. “I’d say we had a pretty damn good day.”

“Excuse me?” the Senator replied.

“You heard me. Or did I stutter? Perhaps I’m speaking a foreign language.”

Wells was instantly enraged. “That’s it. You and I are done. For over a week, I have been waiting for an in-person update from you. Now that you finally deign to come to my office, this is how you handle yourself?

“I warned you what would happen if you chose to be a smartass. You’re
a shitty Director of Central Intelligence. You and your agency are now going to pay the price. You’re through. Do you understand me? It’s over.
You’re
over.”

McGee waited for the man to stop bloviating. Once he had, the DCI looked at him and said, “Now you listen to
me
, Dan.”

The remark immediately got Wells’s hackles up. He was about to shoot McGee the
How dare you? Call me Senator!
look when McGee froze him in place with one of his own.

“You and I are through, all right,” the CIA Director continued. “But I’m not going anywhere—you are.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

McGee pretended to look around. “I didn’t see your Chief of Staff when I came in.”

“She has taken a couple of personal days off.”

“That’s what you think. The FBI arrested her two days ago at the Hay-Adams Hotel.”

Wells couldn’t believe it. “Rebecca was arrested? For what?”

“It will all be in the
Washington Post
tomorrow. Lilliana Grace is doing the story. I believe you two know each other.”

At that remark, the Senator went right into defense mode. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t, Dan.”

Wells seethed at McGee’s continued use of his first name. “Not only is your chairmanship of the Intelligence Committee at an end,” McGee continued, “but so is any hope you ever had of running for the White House. In fact, I’d be surprised if you could even get elected dogcatcher after this is all over.”

“I still have
no
idea what you’re talking about.”

The Director of Central Intelligence leaned back in his chair. “Your Chief of Staff, Rebecca Ritter, is a spy for the Russians.”

The Senator was speechless.

“A search warrant has been issued not only for her apartment but also for your office and all of your communications together.”

Wells wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Collecting himself, he said the first thing that came to his mind. “You represent the Central
Intelligence Agency. Under the Constitution, you have no authority to serve any warrant.”

McGee smiled. “You’re right, I don’t.”

But as soon as he had said the words, the intercom on the Senator’s phone chimed.

“Senator Wells?” the secretary in the outer office intoned. “The Director of the FBI is here to see you.”

EPILOGUE

O
NE MONTH LATER

B
OSTON
, M
ASSACHUSETTS

H
arvath poured two beers into a Yeti tumbler and stepped out onto his patio.

“What are you doing?” Lara called from somewhere inside.

“Union coffee break,” he called back. “Twenty minutes.”

Moving a chair over to the railing, he sat down. From here he could see the Charles River below.

That had been his only request—something quiet, near the water.

The “quiet” part had immediately ruled out Boston Harbor. The area was fun, but too busy for his taste. When he was home, he wanted to relax.

The realtor was a friend of Lara’s and had found him the perfect place. It was older, but it had character and had been well maintained. There were two bedrooms with a loft above the kitchen.

The minute Lara’s son, Marco, had seen the loft, he clambered right up the ladder and declared the space “his.” That was all it had taken for Harvath. He signed the lease that night.

Lara had offered to fly down to Virginia and help him move, but he knew how busy she was. Besides, he needed time alone. There was a lot to think about.

Yusuf, Qabbani, and their families had been interviewed and processed at the U.S. Embassy in Amman. When everything was in order, they were flown to Baltimore to begin their new lives in the United States.

Two Arabic-speaking families from the State Department had volunteered to help work with them and ease their transition. Yusuf had been
immediately admitted to the Sidney Kimmel Comprehensive Cancer Center at Johns Hopkins. His prognosis was not good.

His medical team, though, was determined. And it was quietly understood throughout the hospital that Yusuf was an important man, someone the United States thought very highly of. Everything that could be done for him would be.

Harvath had flown home from Amman alone. Once Yusuf and company had made it safely across the border into Jordan, Williams had taken over.

He had gotten the families into a safe house and had handled everything for them at the Embassy. In the midst of that, he spent several hours talking with the Hadid brothers.

They weren’t his assets to run, but it was obvious that they were being underutilized in Syria. With some additional training, they could be doing much more.

After some back-and-forth with Langley, Bob McGee and Lydia Ryan put their seal of approval on the idea. Williams was given the green light to create a new covert operations element in Syria. The Hadids would be the tip of that spear.

Back on Malta, Vella continued to extract valuable information from Baseyev, Rafael, and Sergun. The extent of what Russia and ISIS had been up to was chilling. As reports were fed back to President Porter, his anger, as well as his resolve, increased exponentially.

In the days after Harvath returned to the United States, the word
proportional
was discussed a lot. It was discussed at the White House, at the State Department, at the CIA, and at the Pentagon.

The other word, spoken only within the President’s closest circle, was vengeance. It certainly lacked sophistication. It also lacked diplomatic polish. But it was accurate. The United States wanted revenge. And it would have it.

Within forty-eight hours of returning home, Harvath was summoned to the White House. He had no idea why, until he was led downstairs to the Situation Room.

Taking a seat near the President, he watched as Operation Full Justice was launched.

Bombs and missiles rained down on the Russian naval installation at the Syrian port of Tartus, as well as the Khmeimim air base just to the north. The Russian air defense systems proved utterly useless against the high-tech weapons the United States threw at them.

Ship after ship was destroyed at Tartus, as was almost every Russian aircraft at Khmeimim. It was the biggest military loss one nation has suffered since World War II.

Within a half hour, President Porter had gone on television to address the nation and explain the actions the United States had taken. He warned that any attempt by Russia to respond would be met with even more withering destruction.

After detailing the Russian’s attempt to draw America into war with ISIS in Syria, he laid out a series of non-negotiable demands.

The first was that Russia withdraw from the region immediately. The second was that the nations of the Middle East must convene an immediate conference to discuss defeating terrorism by reforming Islam.

In absence of any demonstrable reformation, the United States would cease to recognize the Sykes-Picot agreement. The only nation thereunder which the United States would continue to recognize was the State of Israel.

It was the region’s only democracy and an example for Muslim nations to follow. In evidence of its commitment to the security of Israel, the United States would be stepping up its weapons transfers to the Jewish state, including some of its most highly advanced and sophisticated programs.

Calling for unity in the days and weeks ahead, the President assured America, and the world, that by banding together against evil, they would ensure peace for themselves and their children.

He then ended his address by quoting Edmund Burke: “When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.”

It was one of Porter’s best speeches—and it came on the heels of several others that no president would ever want to give. The video of the horrors in Anbar, the assassination of Secretary Devon, the suicide bomber at the White House, and now a massive strike by the United
States upon the Russians. All of these heaped upon the losses that had been suffered by so many already.

The President prayed they were not headed to war with the Russians. He had already spoken with allies around the world and the condemnation of Moscow had been universal. They were considered a pariah. Should they try to retaliate, it would be the end of their nation.

Harvath had driven home from the White House with many of the same thoughts and concerns as the President. Fortunately, Russia did not respond. In fact, they were too involved with multiple Islamist uprisings at home.

Nicholas had doctored the footage of the strikes on the ISIS meeting, and had overlaid it with the voices of Russian pilots and combat controllers. It was a beautiful deception and had worked perfectly.

• • •

And while the CIA tried to decide what to do with Malevsky and Eichel, McGee was also working with the Department of Justice to decide how to handle Rebecca Ritter, her Russian handler, and Joe Edwards—all of whom were cooling their heels in a high-security detention facility.

Ritter was cooperating. She admitted to having done a deal with the devil. The Russians had not only paid her a fortune to spy for them, but they had also offered her the thing she wanted more than anything else.

They had convinced her that they could get Senator Wells into the White House and that from there, she could have any position she wanted. For money and promised power, she had willingly sold out her country.

And though McGee had his hands full with her and everything else, Harvath had suggested to him that he strike while the iron was hot and attempt to recruit Anna Strobl. He continued to feel she had all the right ingredients.

The ultimate get for them, of course, would be Alexandra Ivanova. Yet again, she had been forced to see how reckless and corrupt her government was. She might be very ripe for recruitment now.

McGee had told him he would take all of it under advisement and keep him up to speed on any developments.

When Harvath pulled up to his home along the Potomac, it felt alien to him. It was as if it were from another time in his life—a place out of the past. In a sense, it was. He was cutting his ties with D.C.

He had already sat down with Reed Carlton and explained his position. He had tendered his resignation, but the Old Man had refused to take it. “Go to Boston,” he told him. “Let’s see what happens.”

And that was that.

He packed up the house—or at least those things he thought he’d need to get started. Everything else could stay behind for the time being.

Stuffing his Tahoe and pulling a trailer, he made the trip to Massachusetts—grinning like an idiot almost the entire way there. For once in his life, he was happy—truly happy.

He was pleased not only about where he was going and who he was with, but about what lay in front of him. He had the three ingredients to happiness right in the palm of his hand and he knew it—something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to.

No matter what happened, he would never look back on his life and ask what might have been if he had only made the move to Boston.

“What’s this?” Lara asked, stepping out onto the patio and interrupting his thoughts.

She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. And, even so casually dressed, she was unbelievably gorgeous. He immediately thought about extending his break from twenty minutes to at least forty-five. He wondered if any of the neighbors could see his patio from their windows.

Lara had been helping him unpack and in her hand was a pistol suppressor.

“That?” Harvath replied. “It’s a shot glass.”

Lara rolled her eyes. “And this one?” she replied, holding up another.

“Bud vase. I was going to pick a flower and put it in there to surprise you.”

“You know these are illegal in Boston, right?”

“Good thing I know a cop,” he replied, motioning for her to come sit with him.

Setting the suppressors down, she walked over and leaned up against the edge of the railing.

“You have beautiful legs for a cop,” he said. “You know that?”

“All the better to chase you with.”

“No way. I’m done running. You caught me,” he replied, pulling her into his lap.

She brought her lips to his and kissed him—long, slow, and unbelievably sexy—just like that last kiss they had shared in Budapest, but better. That kiss told him everything he needed to know.

There was no question. They were a great couple—smart, passionate, and electric. They were perfect for each other and they had figured out a way to make it work.

Slipping his hand beneath her T-shirt, he moved softly along her back until he found the clasp of her bra and popped it open.

“Good timing,” she whispered in his ear. “I just put sheets on the bed.”

“Let’s christen the patio first.”

Lara laughed and kissed him again. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” he replied. “So am I.”