Page 24 of Dead Fall

Beglov was pleased. “Your professionalism has not gone unnoticed by the Kremlin. We need more men like you. Especially now. Keep it up.”

Grechko watched as the advisor knocked back the remainder of his cocktail, stood up, and gathered his things to leave.

“Don’t forget those links,” Beglov reminded him.

The pair shook hands and the intelligence operative followed him with his eyes as the advisor exited the shitty little bar.

Though he could have pointed it out to him, Grechko decided not to warn the man that he had lipstick on the back of his collar.

Carelessness, both personal and professional, had a way of catching up with everyone. In times of war, the Fates had a way of accelerating those reckonings.

Grechko made a mental note not to be standing anywhere near Peshkov or Beglov when theirs arrived. Both men were very likely headed for violent, bloody ends.

In the meantime, all the intelligence operative could do was his job. If the Fates had something bloody and violent planned for him, he would never see it coming. His enemies were that good—even the Americans—and he was now about to turn the heat up on them.

CHAPTER 7

UKRAINE

Acrusty operative from Polish Intelligence met Harvath and Nicholas at Poland’s baroque Przemysl Glowny station. He spirited them, along with Argos, Draco, and three porters, past the passport control line, over to the platform, and onto the overnight train to Kyiv.

They were being given exclusive access to the private car used to ferry dignitaries, heads of state, and other VIPs across the border and on to Kyiv.

In addition to several staterooms, there was a narrow conference room with a long, polished table and a living room area with a suite of leather club chairs.

The wood-paneled interior reminded Harvath of the Compiègne Wagon, where the Germans were forced to sign the armistice ending World War I, and in which Hitler, reveling in the irony, forced the French to sign their surrender in World War II.

After a quick tour, the Polish Intelligence operative ran through the rules of the road. “All of the curtains are to remain fully closed and all passengers are expected to practice strict light discipline. The train isn’t armored; however, the windows in this car have been covered with ballistic film.”

Harvath was familiar with the product. It was used on a lot of government buildings and, while it offered some blast mitigation, it was best known for reducing the amount of flying glass after an explosion.

That said, he was also familiar with what mortar rounds, RPGs, and other assorted munitions were capable of. The train was headed into a war zone. If they took a direct hit, window film was going to be about as helpful as rearranging the deck chairs on theLusitania.

When the man was done speaking, Harvath thanked him.

“You’re welcome,” the intelligence officer replied as he checked his watch. “If you want something from the catering car, I’d go now. They’ll be letting the other passengers board soon.”

“We’re all set,” Nicholas answered as he tipped the porters, removed a bottle of wine from one of his bags, and pulled out some of the food he had packed.

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” the man said, stepping out of the conference room into the passageway.

As he did, he paused at the door and added, “I’m not supposed to ask why you’re going to Ukraine. But if it involves killing Russians, I hope you kill as many of those motherfuckers as possible.”

Before Harvath or Nicholas could respond, the man had turned and exited the train.

“That’s an interesting way to say good-bye,” Harvath remarked.

“Not if you’re a Pole,” said Nicholas. “These people have long memories. They remember what it was like living under the Soviets. They know all too well that if the Russians win in Ukraine, they could come for Poland next.”

“Which, as a NATO member, would absolutely trigger World War III.”

“Let’s hope we never have to find out,” the little man replied. “Hungry?”

“Sure,” Harvath replied, walking over to the assortment of hard-sided, olive-drab Storm cases Nicholas had brought from the United States. The ones meant for him had been tagged with his call sign—Norseman. He opened the rifle case first.

Inside was an all-black, Gen II, Galil ACE chambered in 7.62. It had been tricked out with a suppressor, a holographic sight, a magnifier, and a side-folding, telescoping stock. Nestled in the gray foam next to it was a sling and a bunch of thirty-round polymer PMAGs.

“Who chose this rifle?” he asked. Picking it up, he cycled the bolt to make sure it was unloaded and then gauged the Galil’s balance. It was lighter than he had expected, which was important, considering how much the ammo weighed.

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