plenty of street traffic. He’d be all right.
After loosening up, he began his run. It was always the best part of his day. No phone calls, no email, no pathetic alms-seeking constituents. Just him and the pavement.
He was always amazed at how poorly the grounds of the Mall were maintained. The sidewalks were cracked, the curbs crumbling. There were weeds in the grass and entirely too much garbage.
A shining city on a hill it was not. For the capital of the greatest nation in the history of the world, it was disgusting.
Cleaning up D.C. was going to be one of the first things he did as President. Better yet, he’d have Nancy make it one of her initiatives asFirst Lady. She needed a pet cause anyway. This was a good one. It was good and nonpartisan. Perfect for her.
Within minutes, he had run two blocks. His heart rate was elevated and his endorphins were flowing. It was such a delicious rush. As far as he was concerned, a runner’s high was almost as good as sex. Almost .
Usually he let his mind wander on his runs. Today, though, he needed to focus. He had discovered a potential chink in the President’s armor. It was just begging to have a knife shoved through it.
But before he did that, he had to make sure the information was solid. What if Rebecca was wrong? What if she had misunderstood what she had heard?
There was some truth to the phrase If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is —especially in Washington.
As Wells continued to run, he saw a lone figure sitting on a bench. Homeless, he thought to himself. That was another thing his wife could get involved in. Good way to score points with the press and the public.
Passing the figure on the bench, he realized that he wasn’t homeless. He was an older man, buttoned up in a trench coat. He looked like something out of a spy movie. A newspaper sat folded in his lap.
That was when it hit him. Wells didn’t need to confirm Rebecca’s information. He needed someone else to do it. And he had the perfect person in mind.
That person, though, didn’t do anything for free. They would want something in return.
Looking at his watch, Wells decided to turn around and head back. There was a lot he would need to pull together.
CHAPTER 20
G ERMAN -A USTRIAN B ORDER
F rom Frankfurt it was a five-hour drive, nine if there was traffic. Harvath did it in four. And he did it with a body in the trunk.
Lydia Ryan had kept him waiting for an answer so long that he’d finally said fuck this , had gotten in his car, and had taken off. When seconds counted, too often the decisions at the CIA were hours away.
The name Mikhail Malevsky, though, was setting off alarm bells across Washington. Bad ones. Politics were now in play. Malevsky was related to the Russian Prime Minister.
They were second or third cousins, but close enough that Malevsky had managed to secure a position as a commercial attaché. By all accounts it was a charade, but it came with a diplomatic passport. And that put him in a gray zone.
He was suspected of being involved in a money-laundering operation in Munich. Everything was being run through a Russian-owned real estate investment company. While their transactions appeared legitimate, the source of the funds did not.
German authorities knew the money flowing into their country was tied to Russian organized crime. Proving it was another matter entirely. For the moment, Malevsky was beyond their grasp. But he wasn’t beyond Harvath’s.
The United States also knew Malevsky was dirty. They had seen enough evidence. His connection to Sacha Baseyev was one of the most damning details of all. Handling his diplomatic status and his family ties to the Russian PM, though, were the hard parts.
The Russians played a brutal form of hardball. If Harvath was caught, not only was he a dead man, but it would be open season on American diplomats everywhere. The Russians weren’t ones to let bygones be bygones.
In any other situation, the CIA
After loosening up, he began his run. It was always the best part of his day. No phone calls, no email, no pathetic alms-seeking constituents. Just him and the pavement.
He was always amazed at how poorly the grounds of the Mall were maintained. The sidewalks were cracked, the curbs crumbling. There were weeds in the grass and entirely too much garbage.
A shining city on a hill it was not. For the capital of the greatest nation in the history of the world, it was disgusting.
Cleaning up D.C. was going to be one of the first things he did as President. Better yet, he’d have Nancy make it one of her initiatives asFirst Lady. She needed a pet cause anyway. This was a good one. It was good and nonpartisan. Perfect for her.
Within minutes, he had run two blocks. His heart rate was elevated and his endorphins were flowing. It was such a delicious rush. As far as he was concerned, a runner’s high was almost as good as sex. Almost .
Usually he let his mind wander on his runs. Today, though, he needed to focus. He had discovered a potential chink in the President’s armor. It was just begging to have a knife shoved through it.
But before he did that, he had to make sure the information was solid. What if Rebecca was wrong? What if she had misunderstood what she had heard?
There was some truth to the phrase If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is —especially in Washington.
As Wells continued to run, he saw a lone figure sitting on a bench. Homeless, he thought to himself. That was another thing his wife could get involved in. Good way to score points with the press and the public.
Passing the figure on the bench, he realized that he wasn’t homeless. He was an older man, buttoned up in a trench coat. He looked like something out of a spy movie. A newspaper sat folded in his lap.
That was when it hit him. Wells didn’t need to confirm Rebecca’s information. He needed someone else to do it. And he had the perfect person in mind.
That person, though, didn’t do anything for free. They would want something in return.
Looking at his watch, Wells decided to turn around and head back. There was a lot he would need to pull together.
CHAPTER 20
G ERMAN -A USTRIAN B ORDER
F rom Frankfurt it was a five-hour drive, nine if there was traffic. Harvath did it in four. And he did it with a body in the trunk.
Lydia Ryan had kept him waiting for an answer so long that he’d finally said fuck this , had gotten in his car, and had taken off. When seconds counted, too often the decisions at the CIA were hours away.
The name Mikhail Malevsky, though, was setting off alarm bells across Washington. Bad ones. Politics were now in play. Malevsky was related to the Russian Prime Minister.
They were second or third cousins, but close enough that Malevsky had managed to secure a position as a commercial attaché. By all accounts it was a charade, but it came with a diplomatic passport. And that put him in a gray zone.
He was suspected of being involved in a money-laundering operation in Munich. Everything was being run through a Russian-owned real estate investment company. While their transactions appeared legitimate, the source of the funds did not.
German authorities knew the money flowing into their country was tied to Russian organized crime. Proving it was another matter entirely. For the moment, Malevsky was beyond their grasp. But he wasn’t beyond Harvath’s.
The United States also knew Malevsky was dirty. They had seen enough evidence. His connection to Sacha Baseyev was one of the most damning details of all. Handling his diplomatic status and his family ties to the Russian PM, though, were the hard parts.
The Russians played a brutal form of hardball. If Harvath was caught, not only was he a dead man, but it would be open season on American diplomats everywhere. The Russians weren’t ones to let bygones be bygones.
In any other situation, the CIA
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