Page 111 of Dead Fall

Unslinging the RPG, Harvath prepped the disposable launcher, flipped up the sighting device, and sighted in his target.

He waited until he heard Jacks’s RPG launch and then he fired his own. Depressing the firing mechanism, there was a loud bang as the rocket exited the launcher, the switchblade-like fin stabilizers popped out, and it screamed toward the Humvee.

The explosion was the equivalent of being hit by six and a half pounds of TNT. Shrapnel was sent in all directions, including into the cargo truck.

Before the last pieces had hit the ground, Harvath was already up on his feet and running.

He didn’t stop until he reached the entrance to the village. There, Hookah had replaced the Russian jeep right where they had found it. Thefour Ravens were now lying hooded and hog-tied in the bed of the Novator, which was idling in the center of the road, waiting for him.

Jacks, who was right on Harvath’s heels, arrived and hopped into the truck. Hookah and Harvath then removed frag grenades, pulled the pins, and pitched them into the jeep.

Whether the rest of the Ravens were going to hang around long enough to investigate what had happened or, believing they were under attack, would take off, Harvath wanted to add as much uncertainty as possible to what had happened to his four prisoners.

He and Hookah made it to the Novator and shut the doors just as the frags detonated.

As the Russian jeep exploded in a massive fireball, Biscuit hit the gas and they disappeared back into the forest.

CHAPTER 32

KYIV

Nicholas felt as if he had let Harvath down. No matter how hard he had tried to get Kozar to share the information with him, the Ukrainian Intelligence officer wouldn’t budge. “Some things are too precious,” the man had said. “Too sensitive.”

Of course, the man was correct. In war, intelligence was as indispensable as bombs and bullets. The lengths that the United States and its allies had gone to keep the D-Day invasion secret were extraordinary. The operation itself was shrouded in a thick mist of half-truths and outright lies. In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the disinformation campaign had taken almost as much time, money, and manpower as the planning of the actual event.

Great Britain had been shot through with spies. The ability of the enemy to penetrate its intelligence services and other critical wartime efforts was astounding. Nicholas could only imagine how little sleep counterintelligence chiefs got during the war.

But if the Brits knew one thing, it was how to ferret out moles and other enemy operatives. It was often by very clever, yet very simple means. Their record wasn’t perfect, but in the end Hitler and the Axis powers had been defeated.

One of his favorite counterintelligence operations was called the Double-Cross System, or the XX System for short. It was a program by which captured Nazi spies, or those who had voluntarily surrendered,were used to transmit false information back to their German handlers. Interdicting fresh spies was made even easier once the Brits had broken the Nazi encryption machine known as Enigma.

The idea of using spies against their controllers appealed to Nicholas. There was something poetic about turning a dagger around and plunging it into the unsuspecting heart of the person who had intended to use it against you.

But in the wilderness of mirrors, as the espionage game had been dubbed, crosses and double crosses could be quite dangerous. In his estimation, the simplest, most straightforward operations were always the best.

Tonight he was going to present to the GUR’s digital unit another case study in hacking and utilization of the electronic dark arts against the Russians. Codenamed “Fortitude,” this operation had been inspired by the Double-Cross System back in World War II.

As he sat at his desk, preparing the slides for his presentation, he saw the dogs perk up and then heard a knock at his door. It was Yulia.

“Hungry?” she asked, holding a pizza box.

“That’s what the cafeteria is serving tonight?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I have to take a break from that food every once in a while. I’m all for patriotism, but it’s like being force-fed by my grandmother.”

The little man smiled. He had a sophisticated palate and very expensive taste, but anyone who said they didn’t like a good slice of pizza every now and again was a liar.

Clearing a space on his desk, he said, “What did you get and where did you get it?”

“It’s a place called Napule,” she replied, setting the box down and giving the dogs a little attention. “They call this pizza ‘a cafona.’ It has tuna, onion, tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil.”

Tuna on pizza was averyEuropean thing. He could remember asking for it at a pizzeria in the United States and how the room had gone absolutely silent. Everyone had looked at him like he was some sort of a monster. They had no idea what they were missing.

“In the middle of a war, I’m stunned that Kyiv has pizza to go.”

“Life goes on,” she responded, pulling a bottle of Chianti out of her backpack. “Even in the middle of a war.”

“Are you allowed to bring alcohol into the office?”

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