In his suit and overcoat, with a leather briefcase slung from his shoulder, he looked every inch the unassuming businessman or government worker.
He paused for a moment on the sidewalk, chatting amiably with the babushka, who had followed him outside with a piece of mail.
He smiled at the old woman, but his eyes swept the street, scanning for anything unusual or out of place. He was alert, but relaxed, about to conduct his morning ritual of walking to work.
“Where are you going?” Chase asked as he saw Harvath get up.
“I’m going to follow him.”
“Are you nuts? He knows what you look like. If he even feels you on him, it could blow this whole thing.”
“He won’t feel me,” Harvath reassured him. “He won’t even know I’m there.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Stay here and watch his building.”
Chase shook his head. The decision felt impulsive to him. It was a huge risk and he couldn’t begin to fathom what Harvath thought he might gain from it.
Heading downstairs, Harvath climbed back out the rear window and came around the side of the building. Very carefully, he headed up the street after Tretyakov.
Most carnivores have a finely honed prey drive. It is the instinctive impulse to hunt and capture their food. The better the hunter, the better it is able to sense when it is being hunted. It was the same for human beings.
Most people, though, had deadened themselves to their instincts. They had stopped listening altogether. When their gut told them something was wrong, they rationalized the warning away. When the danger finally made itself too obvious to ignore, it was often too late to react.
Humans who hunted other humans had a highly developed prey drive. They could sense the presence of other hunters long before they could see them. Chase had been right to warn Harvath.
What Chase hadn’t fully learned yet, though, was how to mask the signals that other hunters pick up on. There was an energy, an intensity, that took over the moment the prey drive kicked in. As the hunter locked on to his quarry, it was like projecting a tractor beam.
The key to staying hidden was to unplug the beam, to turn it off by denying it any energy. It was a rather esoteric process. Chase jokingly referred to it as “The Force.” And while Harvath didn’t have a term for it, the best explanation he had ever found for it was in a book about Zen mysticism. Essentially, he removed his ego from the process. The hunt was neither good nor bad. Its outcome would be what it would be and was therefore, out of his control.
The ability to remove himself was what made him such an effective predator. Combined with the skills he had learned from the Old Man, he had risen to the very top of the pyramid. He was an apex predator, a hunter of other hunters.
One of the most important things about being an apex predator was to try not to appear like one. Once other predators noticed you, they immediately took interest and wanted to know what was going on.
So, like sheep around the world, he took out his phone and pretended to be looking at it as he walked. With his shoulders hunched and his head down, he fit right in with everyone else.
Just based on the time of day, Harvath had assumed Tretyakov was headed to his office, but as they neared the river, he watched him take a detour.
Up ahead was a short bridge covered with padlocks. On the other side was Kneiphof, the twenty-five-acre island Kuznetsov had told him about—Tretyakov’s “quiet place” where he sought refuge when he needed to get away from the office.
It seemed odd to be starting the day there, but who could say? Perhaps he just enjoyed passing through on his way to work.
As he watched the man cross the bridge, he unslung his backpack and removed a brightly colored guidebook. He opened to the section on Immanuel Kant and Königsberg Cathedral. Then, once he felt he had given the GRU officer enough of a lead, he began following him again.
Aside from a smattering of vagrants and occasional people cutting through, either on foot or by bicycle, the park was relatively quiet.
The scent of the river was strong and unpleasant. Harvath could only imagine what it was like at the height of summer. But despite that, the island appeared to be an enjoyable, and likely a popular place. It was filled with trees, there were open places to sunbathe or play soccer, there were plenty of benches, and in addition to the cobbled boulevard that ran up the center, there were a multitude of walking paths that branched off in all directions.
Harvath watched as Tretyakov passed the cathedral and the Kant tomb, then took a path that branched off to the right. At the first bench he came to, he sat down.
Placing his briefcase on his left side, he took out the envelope that the babushka had given him. Opening it, he removed the letter from inside, and began to read.
At that moment, another impulse fired from deep inside Harvath’s brain. Looking around, and not seeing anything suspicious, he decided to take Tretyakov right there in the park.
CHAPTER 67
* * *
Harvath walked up and stopped right in front of Tretyakov. For several moments, the Russian didn’t even bother to look up from his letter.
Once he did, he spoke in English. “Mr. Stephen Hall, I presume,” he said, using Harvath’s alias from Gotland.
“You can call me Steve.”
Returning the letter to its envelope, Tretyakov placed it in an outer pocket of his briefcase and studied the man standing in front of him.
“It’s a little early in the morning for that, isn’t it?” the GRU officer asked, eyeballing the empty vodka bottle Harvath had fished from a nearby trash can.
“This isn’t for me. It’s for you. In fact, you’re going to be holding on to it in a moment.”
“You think so?”
Harvath nodded. In his pack was a syringe of ketamine, known for its use as a horse tranquilizer. He had planned on hitting him with the Taser and then injecting him with the ketamine to make it look as if he had passed out drunk. As soon as he had him incapacitated, he would work on getting him out of the park and back to the abandoned building.
“Mr. Hall, or whatever your real name is, I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
The man was incredibly calm. He sat on the bench as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Though Harvath hadn’t shown it to him, he assumed that the hand he couldn’t see, the one hidden in his right coat pocket, was grasping a weapon.
“I think you’re going to be a lot of help to me,” said Harvath, pulling out his Taser.
“Close in. Now,” Tretyakov ordered in Russian.
The sudden switch from English jarred Harvath. Instantly, his head was on a swivel.
Four vagrants were now headed toward him from different directions, as were two more “passersby.” All had weapons drawn. It was a trap.
“Sometimes, things are too good to pass up,” said Tretyakov. “Like a GRU colonel, sitting alone, on a bench in a quiet section of a quiet park.”
“There’s no way you could have known I was coming.”
“I didn’t. It was a hunch, I believe you Americans call it. When Ivan failed to make contact, we assumed the worst. We knew eventually he would be broken. We just didn’t know when. I must thank you, though.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t think we would catch you so quickly. We were worried we might have to carry on this ruse for quite some time.”