CHAPTER 65
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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.
Killing bad guys—be they mujahideen, hijackers, warlords, or drug kingpins, was one thing. Blending into a normal, everyday scene—as he was doing right now—killing high-profile targets, professional assassins, and unassuming ex-military bodyguards was something completely different.
Chase was exceptional at taking out unsophisticated killers in their own backyard, but now, he had to become the best at taking out sophisticated ones in his.
The West was under attack and it was full of them. The war was changing. He and Sloane were the future. So was Jasinski, if she was truly onboard.
When they got to Tretyakov’s apartment building, Chase asked, “What now?”
“Now,” Harvath replied, “we keep walking. No matter what happens, you never stop in front of a target.”
They kept going until they arrived at a corner with a small German café serving breakfast.
Before the Soviets had invaded in the 1940s, Kaliningrad had been part of Prussia. Today, German tourists were a huge part of their economy and there was a café, bar, or restaurant catering to them in every neighborhood, if not on every block.
“How’s your German?” Harvath asked as they took a table outside with a view of Tretyakov’s building.
“Terrible.”
“I’ve got this, then,” said Harvath, as a smiling waitress came over with menus and coffee.
Smiling back, he spoke to her in his passable Russian, but added a German accent. He sounded like a tourist attempting to speak the local language. The waitress humored him.
She asked where he was staying and, having done his homework, he was able to cite a nearby neighborhood and talk about renting an apartment via a popular Internet app.
As they drank their coffee, the pair looked for other places they might use for surveillance. They could only sit here for so long without drawing attention.
Chase pointed out a boarded-up building down the block. By the looks of it, its roof might have a halfway decent view.
More important, it would allow them to get off the street. According to Kuznetsov, Tretyakov liked to walk to work. The last thing they needed was to bump into him—especially since he might recognize Harvath.
Once their food arrived, they ate and paid their bill. The sooner they were out of sight, the better.
What’s more, Harvath was eager to get a closer look at Tretyakov’s apartment. He was starting to form a plan, which he hoped would allow them to snatch the GRU operative without anyone even knowing he was gone.
CHAPTER 66
* * *
Harvath and Palmer entered the abandoned building by removing a board from one of the rear windows and headed all the way upstairs. The roof, as they had hoped, had a decent, though partly obstructed view of Tretyakov’s apartment.
Sending out a text, they told Staelin and Ashby where to find them. Then they set up a small camera and took turns watching the ebb and flow of people, hoping to find a pattern.
Unfortunately, there was nothing special or predictable about any of the traffic. They saw a babushka—a little old woman who was likely the custodian—go in and come out several times from the building, sweeping and handling other menial labor chores.
In the Soviet days, babushkas were often informants who gladly passed on even the slightest pieces of gossip to the authorities. They were quick to report any unusual activity. She would need to be avoided.
And while she probably had keys to all the apartments, Harvath wasn’t interested. He could get into them without her. What he needed was information. What time did Tretyakov normally leave? What time did he normally come home? Did he entertain during the week? Did he own a vehicle?
All they had was where he lived, where he worked, and an outdated photo Nicholas had been able to uncover.
“Got him,” Chase suddenly said.
Harvath, who had been preparing to burst an encrypted SITREP back to the United States, looked over the edge of the roof.