State Of The Union

The man was good-too good, especially to be part of an FBI surveillance team, and as Harvath’s vision cleared he could see that his opponent was already regaining his feet. He didn’t want to risk another spi

As the man raised the baton for another strike, Harvath rolled hard to his left out of the way and ripped open the nearest cabinet door. The baton missed its mark, and Harvath thrust his hand under the sink. The first thing he touched was Frank Leighton’s canister of starter fluid. Pulling the canister from the cabinet, he flicked off the lid and sprayed the fluid in his attacker’s face as the baton came down again and caught him in the shoulder.

With a yelp of surprise, the man dropped his weapon and his hands flew to his poisoned eyes. The fumes from the fluid caused him to gasp for air.

Harvath leapt to his feet and threw a blistering kick into the man’s abdomen. As his attacker fell to the floor, Harvath swept the countertop with his arm until he found what he was looking for.

He ripped the cord from the coffee maker and positioned himself behind his attacker, wrapping the cord around the man’s neck. “Who the fuck are you?” he commanded as he applied pressure. The man could only gasp for breath and Harvath realized he would never get anything from him like this.

He withdrew the cord from around the man’s neck and shoved him face forward onto the floor. Harvath used the cord to bind the man’s hands behind him and then searched him for additional weapons. He found a semiautomatic Smith amp; Wesson, which he tucked into his waistband, and a small Motorola radio. Apparently, this guy wasn’t working alone. He unplugged the man’s earpiece and microphone from the unit and then hoisted him up and leaned him over the edge of the sink, where he turned on the water so his captive could rinse his face under the faucet.

While the mystery man was flushing out his eyes, nose, and mouth, Harvath kept one hand firmly on the cord binding his wrists and used his free hand to turn up the volume on the Motorola. Before Harvath could make any assessments of how dangerous it was to leave the house and who might be waiting for him outside, he had to find out who he was dealing with.

“Bath time’s over,” said Harvath as he yanked the man’s head from beneath the faucet and spun him around to face him. “I’ll ask you again. Who are you? FBI?”

“Fuck you,” he replied.

“Fuck me? Fine,” answered Harvath as slammed his fist into the man’s solar plexus. He waited several moments for him to catch his breath, then withdrew the Smith amp; Wesson, chambered a round and pointed it him. “I’m done playing around. I want to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”

The man appeared unsteady and wobbled as if he was going to pass out. Harvath tried to steady him as his head lolled backwards. Then right out of the blue, it came snapping forward and co

By the time he was able to shake it off, the man had already run out of the kitchen down the other hallway toward the back door. He chased after him, but came to a dead stop when he reached the hallway, as four heavily armed men were blocking his way. As the laser sights from their submachine guns lit up his chest like a Christmas tree, Harvath realized he was not only outma

When the man who had attacked him had been untied, he walked back up to Harvath and hit him harder than he had ever been hit before in his life. The blow to his stomach made him double over in pain. The man retrieved his Smith amp; Wesson, placed it against Harvath’s chest as a bag was pulled over his head, and said, “All my life I’ve been waiting to kill one of you.”

Chapter 12

ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA

Milesch Popov drove back into the town of Zvenigorod singing along to the Snoop Doggy Dog tune “Gin and Juice” that was pumping out of the stereo system of his new Jeep Grand Cherokee. The lyrics, “…with my mind on my money and my money on my mind,” were profoundly appropriate. Though Popov had no idea what he was doing, with a seventy-five-thousand-dollar advance, he knew he could figure it out pretty quick. And lest anyone should forget, the deal he had so artfully negotiated with Sergei Stavropol was for seventy-five thousandplus expenses, against an eventual five hundred thousand U.S. upon delivery of the package-General Anatoly Karganov’s body, or what was left of it.

Popov had all but convinced himself that the new Cherokee could rightly be categorized as an expense. He needed it and was sure that Stavropol would appreciate his rationale. Zvenigorod was no Russian backwater, at least not anymore. Because of its wooded hills and crystal clear rivers, it had often been called the Russian Switzerland, but now with the influx of rich New Russians building their weekend dachas along the river, it was truly begi

With the right car and the right clothes-a Giorgio Armani suit, another legitimate business expense-Popov had no doubt he would be looked upon as just another rich Muscovite fleeing his harried city life for the peace and tranquility of the Russian countryside. Popov, though, hated the countryside. It reminded him of the orphanage in Nizhnevartovsk, in northeastern Russia on the western edge of Siberia, where he had lived until he ran away when he was ten. It had taken him nine weeks to travel the almost fifteen hundred miles to Moscow, stowing away in the occasional truck, but more often than not traveling by foot, and once he had finally arrived, he never looked back. Over the next twelve years, he suckled at the underbelly of Russia’s largest city, building a modest, albeit successful empire of his own, specializing in extortion, racketeering, and stolen automobiles. To those unfamiliar with him, Popov might have appeared to be out of his league on this job, but in truth, he was blessed with the gift of being a lot smarter than he looked.

The old hunting lodge was still surrounded by crime scene tape when he brought the Grand Cherokee to a stop in the driveway. There didn’t appear to be any cops around and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He didn’t welcome the thought of having to put his fake state inspector credentials to the test. But in all fairness, there wasn’t much he wasn’t prepared to do for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall.

He grabbed the brown file folder off the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. “I fuckin’ hate winter,” he mumbled to himself as he turned the collar of his expensive overcoat up against the wind. Images of sunshine, scantily clad women and a nice vacation villa somewhere in the Greek Islands crowded his mind and he pushed them aside so he could get on with the job at hand. The sooner he got some answers, the sooner he would get paid.

The file he was holding, just like the Cherokee and the Armani suit, was another justifiable business expense. He had gone very far out on a limb to get it, and he would charge Stavropol dearly for it, but it represented a huge savings in time for him. In his hands he held all that not only the local police knew about the case, but also information from Russia’s prestigious FSB. He had read it several times over and though it represented the efforts of some of the country’s top criminologists, Popov was not one to let others do his thinking for him. Besides, he had a piece of the puzzle that the cops didn’t; he knew that Stavropol was somehow involved with the murders.