Chapter 61

CHAPTER 61

There were countless, incredibly dangerous unknowns that Harvath needed to solve for. How many men would the Russians send? Four seemed to make the most sense. But what if they sent six? Or twelve?

What kind of pre-attack surveillance would they conduct? Would they attempt to send someone in to get the lay of the land and carry out a head count? Or would they launch into battle the minute they received the information?

Most important of all, could they even be relied upon to take the bait? Would Powell be able to sell it in such a way that the information wasn't just probable, but irresistible?

The only way to secure the outcome he wanted on that last question was for Harvath to be absolutely clear to Powell what would happen to him if he failed.

Elovik was protecting one of the men responsible for his wife's murder and Powell had been protecting Elovik. As far as Harvath was concerned, that put them all in the same category. He would gladly mete out the same punishment to the station chief that he planned on delivering to the Russians.

Though he was still wrestling with the idea of letting Powell walk away at the end of this with his life, it was the only way to get the man to turn in his best performance. And they were going to need it.

In essence, what Harvath was planning was one very intense piece of stagecraft, for which he was dreadfully understaffed.

He had achieved much more with much less at times in the past, but this was different. He had two of his guys lying in hospital beds and he was going to put them right in the path of an oncoming truck.

As Haney had only been under local anesthesia for his surgery, he was fully with it and was able to consent to the plan. Johnson, on the other hand, wasn't one hundred percent there. He'd been slow to wake up. He was also on a bunch of pain medication.

Harvath didn't like leaving those two to fend for themselves, but he didn't have anyone who could sit in their rooms and pull guard duty. For his plan to work, he was going to need both Staelin and Preisler. He was also going to need an incredible amount of luck.

Despite Elovik's background, the fact that he hadn't accompanied his shooters to the ambush in the Bois de Boulogne told Harvath the guy was not very hands-on. He was more management than labor.

In one respect, that was a good thing. He wouldn't be bunched up with his men if and when any bullets started flying. On the other hand, someone would have to keep eyes on him at all times. He was the reason all this was happening. If he tried to bolt the moment something happened, everything would be for naught. The team had come too far and had suffered too much to have that be the outcome.

Once Harvath had mapped out what he wanted to do, he and his teammates then had to allocate their remaining equipment.

They had burned through a lot of ammo at the ambush. Rolling into a renewed gunfight with such low stocks was asking for trouble. But, as Harvath had made clear, their only alternative was to abandon the mission. No one wanted to do that. And they knew that had Johnson been fully awake, he wouldn't want it either. The team would have to conserve what ammo it had and make the best of their less-than-optimal situation.

What they did have going for them was the element of surprise. But, of course, that was exactly what they had thought going into their encounter with the Russians in the Bois de Boulogne, only to have the tables dramatically turned.

While they were always ready for anything, that was a twist they had not seen coming. If the team was honest, there had been a bit of operational arrogance at play; a belief that they had the upper hand and because of that, maybe they hadn't had their eyes open wide enough. Though he doubted that being sold out by the CIA station chief was on anyone's bingo card.

Nevertheless, they had to be prepared for everything to go sideways. The Russians were brutes, pretty low-level strategic thinkers, but they weren't total morons. As soon as Powell contacted him, Elovik was going to be wondering if it was a trap. Was the CIA man being honest with him, or was someone, most likely Harvath, standing behind him with a gun to his head, telling him what to say? It was guaranteed that if the Russians took the bait, they were going to come in with their eyes wide open.

Harvath, however, would be ready for them—no matter what. He still had a few tricks up his sleeve, and he was prepared to use all of them. He wanted this to be over tonight. All of it.

It was a lofty order, but if the team did everything right, there was a chance—albeit slight—that they could pull it off.

They weren't Harvath's preferred odds, but he reveled in jobs no one else could do. Success, as he always said, was the only option. He owed it to himself, his team, and especially to Lara to see this through and make the Russians pay.

But in order to do that, he was going to have to do something he didn't want to—relinquish control. He would have to trust his team with some of the hardest and most dangerous parts of this assignment. Everything came down to managing Powell and Elovik. If that part of the plan fell through, it all would fall through.

He was thinking again about "The Purloined Letter" and hiding in plain sight. He was also thinking about how the best lies were those that contained the most truth.

To trap Elovik, they were going to need to tell him a story that was all but impossible to refute; something that made so much sense, he'd be a fool to doubt it.

As he had stood in Powell's apartment, holding the station chief at gunpoint, the lie had begun to form in Harvath's mind. It was simple, which was another hallmark of a good lie. It also offered the most likely explanation of events, which Elovik would immediately recognize as being the most probable course that Harvath had taken. Once the pieces had been put in place, all that was necessary was for Powell to make contact with his paymaster.

They communicated, in English, through an encrypted messaging app that allowed Harvath to see both sides of the communication and script the station chief's responses.

Posing as Powell, Harvath relayed the following: Of the five-man American tactical team, three had been killed in the ambush. Harvath and another surviving team member were seriously injured. They were receiving medical attention in Paris, from an off-the-books provider previously employed by the CIA. For five hundred thousand dollars, Powell would reveal their location.

After hitting send, Harvath sat back and waited for the military attaché's response. It didn't take long for the Russian to come back with a counteroffer.

The Kremlin, he claimed, was only interested in Harvath. He offered seventy-five thousand dollars, but Powell would have to snatch Harvath himself. Elovik wasn't interested in launching another operation and potentially losing more men. He was already up to his eyeballs trying to figure out how the Russian ambassador was going to explain away a bunch of dead embassy employees in the Bois de Boulogne.

No deal, Harvath texted back. He's wounded. This is your best chance to get him. Tell Moscow I get the full $500,000 or I walk.

It was a game of financial chicken. The Russians would expect Powell to play hardball. They also knew that Powell needed Harvath to be eliminated. If Harvath survived, Powell would never be safe.

Stand by, Elovik replied.

After what felt like an hour but in reality was twenty minutes, Powell's phone vibrated with another text.

The embassy only has three hundred thousand dollars cash on hand, the military attaché texted. Moscow says take it or leave it.

Harvath sat back and let Elovik twist in the wind, wondering what Powell's reply would be. Finally, he texted back, Deal .

The Russian's response was immediate. Send me Harvath's location, details on the doctor, etc. We'll arrange your payment once we confirm his whereabouts and condition.

Harvath chuckled. They were either testing him or they really didn't give Powell much credit. Only a fool would hand over prime intel hoping to get paid after the fact. Spies referred to it as the "prostitute principle." In which the perceived value of services rapidly diminishes after said services have been rendered.

Negative, Harvath texted back. We do it in person. Café Apate. 13th arrondissement. One hour. Once the intel is confirmed, you hand over the money.

It was a ballsy move, but it backstopped the lie. It made Powell look nervous, perhaps even desperate. He had a good hand, and he was playing it for all it was worth. That was something the Russians would recognize and appreciate. Had the situation been reversed, Elovik and every one of his superiors would have done the same thing. When life gave you an opportunity, you took it.

Once the military attaché had confirmed the meeting, Harvath left Staelin in charge of Powell, exited the Clinique Saint-Raphael, and walked to Café Apate on the corner.

He took a seat at an outdoor table and ordered an espresso. When the waiter returned inside, he pulled out his own phone and texted Preisler, who had opened one of the clinic's windows and was sitting behind Haney's HK417 rifle.

Ready? Harvath's text read.

Ready, Preisler replied.

Ok, then. Take your first shot. Light me up.