HALO jumps were always painful. It didn’t matter how much he tried to slow down by flaring his wingsuit. When the canopy unfurled and the drag kicked in, there was an instant snap that shocked the body. Like a dog who decides to chase a cat and doesn’t know he’s on a tether until he reaches the end of it. It hurt like a son of a bitch.
Outside the barn, Staelin had rigged a perimeter of IR security cameras that would alert them to any approach. The feeds were accessible via a tablet that Harvath was using to review their limited mission intelligence.
From an information perspective, this was an incredibly bare-bones operation. Kuznetsov had told them where Tretyakov lived and worked. He had also provided some information about his routine and potential likes and dislikes. Very little of it was actionable. But what there was, Harvath had decided to act upon.
The GRU colonel was single. He had no known girlfriend, or boyfriend. It was not known if he had any pastimes, any hobbies, or any vulnerabilities such as drinking, prostitutes, drugs, or gambling. For their purposes, he was a black hole.
Harvath had done more with less before, but that didn’t mean he liked it. In a perfect world, you would set up surveillance on the target for weeks, if not months. You would study his every move; learn all of his habits. You would know him better than anyone else. You would know his hopes, his fears, his dreams, and his weaknesses.
And by doing this, you would learn the best and most effective place to hit him. Someplace that was routine in his day. Someplace where he felt safe. Someplace where he felt invisible and could let his guard down.
There was only one place, outside home and work, that Kuznetsov could remember Tretyakov having a fondness for. It wasn’t a bar, a restaurant, or even a specialty tobacconist. It was an island, almost dead center in the middle of the city, accessed by a bridge covered in padlocks.
Kuznetsov had met his GRU superior for a meeting there once. He had remembered Tretyakov remarking that it was within walking distance of his apartment and his office, and that it was where he went when he needed to think.
If only there was a way to force him, to stress him out enough that he would retreat to the island to think, Harvath had reflected.
But a trip to a pretty park somewhere to gather your thoughts was too random. It wasn’t like seeing a mistress or visiting a grave on an anniversary. There was no telling how long they could wait for something like that to happen. They would have to pick another place. And they would have to be creative. Every cautious, well-thought-out, well-reasoned, normal thing you would do in a situation like this was out the window.
Harvath was convinced, though, that if they could avoid the gravitational pull of chaos, if they could stay outside the boundaries of Murphy’s Law, if they could do that just long enough, they might be able to get the job done.
They passed the night without incident. Before sunrise, they were dressed like tourists, with backpacks, maps, and cameras, waiting to get picked up.
They ate a cold breakfast of water and protein bars. When it was time to move, Harvath gave the signal.
Despite the mistaken report on the status of the cow pasture drop zone, Filip Landsbergis of the VSD had provided some valuable assistance.
A quarter of a mile away, a Lithuanian semi truck importing a refrigerated trailer full of fresh fruit and vegetables sat by the side of the road waiting for them.
Its driver, a gruff man immune to pleasantries, told Harvath and his team to hurry up and get in. Russian patrols were random and all over the place. He likened Kaliningrad to a police state. You never knew where or when you’d be forced to deal with the authorities.
They did as he asked and climbed inside. The temperature felt to be in the thirties. He pointed out a stack of blankets and a power strip for charging any devices before he closed and locked the door.
The team broke out their headlamps and helped themselves to fresh apples and oranges as Staelin recharged the IR cameras and tablet.
The ride would be a couple of hours. Grabbing one of the blankets, Harvath found a place he could stretch out and tried to catch up on his sleep. With everything they had in front of them, this would very likely be the last real chance he had.
CHAPTER 65
On the outskirts of Kaliningrad’s capital city, the truck pulled over and the driver opened the rear doors. He handed Harvath an envelope with tickets for the tram and then told his passengers to get lost.
“Nice guy,” said Staelin, as they watched him close up the trailer, hop back into the cab, and pull away.
“That nice guy’s father, two uncles, and grandfather were Forest Brothers,” said Harvath, referencing the Baltic partisans who organized a resistance movement and waged guerilla warfare against the Soviet occupation throughout World War II and after.
“And he comes from great stock,” Staelin added, upgrading his assessment of the man.
“He’s also our ride out of here,” said Harvath.
“My respect for him continues to grow.”
“As it should,” said Harvath, putting his game face on. “Okay, listen up, everybody. We are deep in Indian country and there is no cavalry. We have one job and it is to snatch Tretyakov and get him into Poland. Anything less than that is mission failure. Do you understand me?”
One by one, they nodded. All of them understood.
“Good. See you at the rally point. Let’s go.”
With that, they broke into teams and went in separate directions. Ashby and Staelin headed south. Harvath and Palmer headed west.
“What’s the plan?” the young operative asked, as Harvath checked his map and decided the best route to take.
“Well,” said Harvath, “at the most basic level, we were hired to kill people and blow things up. But let’s see if we can avoid that this time. We’ve managed to get in without anyone knowing. If we can get the job done and get out the same way, this will have been a major success.”
Chase pretended to make check marks on an imaginary pad. “So that’s no fun No fun. And no fun.”
“Funny how you can’t spell ‘paycheck’ without no fun.”
“Actually—” Chase began, but Harvath interrupted him.
“Our tram is coming. Put your earbuds in and follow me.”
Chase did as he was told and they caught the main tram heading into downtown Kaliningrad.
Wearing earbuds was an operational habit they had gotten into. Not only were they able to talk to each other, but it helped them tune out the locals. As long as it looked as if they were listening to music or chatting on the phone, no one attempted to engage them.
They rode the tram into downtown and got off near a former Nazi underground bunker that had been turned into a museum. On foot, they headed for Tretyakov’s neighborhood.
As they walked together, Harvath took the opportunity to train Chase — pointing out CCTV cameras to avoid, places to shake a hypothetical tail, and spots where you could dispose of evidence or hide items and come back to get them later.
He had spent a lot of time working with Sloane, but not as much with Chase. It felt good to be in the field with him — to see how he operated in a foreign environment, how he reacted to unusual input.
For the most part, he was fantastic. He knew his stuff and he was incredibly observant. He still, though, got things wrong — and Harvath knew exactly why.
Like Sloane, he was smart, funny, and incredibly talented. But also like Sloane, he was still green. Despite all his combat deployments, all his time behind a trigger, there was still an immaturity to him. And he wore it like a beacon pinned to his chest.