Page 38 of Dead Fall

“What for?”

“We’re going to set up a new PAC, stuffed to the rafters with money, to field challengers and to make sure that they lose their next primary.”

It just kept getting better—like hitting the lottery over and over again in the same day. Paulsen was a diamond-encrusted bulldozer and Wilson was in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t wait to get back to D.C. and get started.

But he couldn’t leave, not just yet. He needed to make sure Paulsen felt he had gotten his money’s worth from the visit.

There were also a few more items on his hidden agenda, the things his handler had specifically asked for, that he needed to secure before leaving. Once he had those tasks completed, he could head back to D.C. and maybe even do a little celebrating.

CHAPTER 12

UKRAINE

The only gear Harvath possessed was what he had been carrying on his person when he had jumped out of the train. Everything else had been incinerated. Poking through the wreckage would have been pointless. His carriage had been destroyed.

He indicated to rescuers where he had last seen Symon and then hopped into the ambulance with Artem, the pregnant woman having already been taken away in a separate ambulance.

It was a fast but bumpy ride to the hospital in Kharkiv—Ukraine’s second-largest city.

As they got closer into town, he was able to get cell service. Opening his encrypted messaging app, he texted Nicholas an update.

By the time they arrived, word of the attack on the train had already spread. Personnel congregated at the emergency room entrance, ready to receive the wounded.

Sadly, only a handful of people had survived. Most of the train’s staff and passengers had been killed. Efforts would very soon move from rescue to recovery.

The burning sensation Harvath had felt during the attack turned out to be a superheated piece of plastic that had fused to the back of his shirt and melted through to his skin. The wound was red and painful, but mercifully there were no blisters. A nurse treated his injury and helped find him a new shirt. Then she took him to see Artem.

His leg would need surgery, but he had been stabilized and wasexpected to make it. The doctors agreed to give him a few moments alone to speak with Harvath.

Without wasting any time, he provided the name, a rough description, and the location of the GUR operative waiting for Harvath at the main railway station. He also conveyed the passwords that were to be used. Then he thanked Harvath for what he had done and told him to be careful. He wished him a successful outcome for his mission.

Harvath thanked the man in return and once again extended his condolences over the loss of Symon. He told the intelligence officer to get well soon and then stood back as the medical team came back into the room and wheeled Artem out for surgery.

At the emergency entrance, he found the ambulance driver who had brought them in from the train attack. He was loading his vehicle with body bags, preparing to go back. Harvath asked if he could drop him at the station on his way and the man told him to get in.

They made small talk, mostly in Russian, which most of the residents this close to the border spoke. The driver figured Harvath was in-country to fight for the International Legion and thanked him for his service. He explained that it was unusual to see foreign fighters arrive with their own weapons. Harvath told him that he had been training soldiers in Lviv before deciding to join troops at the front. It wasn’t the best lie, but it seemed to satisfy the man.

When they pulled up to the station, the driver opened his glove box, removed a yellow-and-blue armband, and handed it to him. “As long as you’re carrying weapons, you’ll want to wear this,” he said. “At least until they issue you a uniform.”

Harvath slipped the band over his arm, thanked the man, and climbed out of the ambulance.

Standing on the curb, he watched as the man drove away, back to the horror of the train attack. He knew all too well what sifting through the wreckage for human remains was going to be like.

Whether or not the phrase was uttered by Plato, Santayana, or General Sherman, war truly was hell. It burned and blistered and ripped and scarred everyone it touched. As was so often said, only the dead know the end of war.

Entering the “Stalin’s empire”–style, yellow-and-white railway station, Harvath observed the trickle of people making their way through. Pre-conflict, it would have been a lively location bustling with travelers. These days it was a dangerous place to linger. The station had been targeted repeatedly by the Russians.

The tinge of history, that feeling of having romantically traveled back in time, that he had experienced when boarding the overnight train in Poland was gone. Now, looking at the stacks of charred sandbags, the walls pockmarked by shrapnel, and the gaping holes blasted through the roof above, it felt as if he were approaching the gates of hell themselves.

He found his new contact, a tall, blond woman in her twenties, standing at the counter in an empty café just off the arrivals hall.

She was attractive and had taken the time to do her makeup. He couldn’t tell if it was out of pride, defiance, or because she was shuttling an American to the front and saw it as a reason to get done up. On the counter next to her was an old Ken Follett paperback.

Harvath stood nearby and ordered an espresso. Looking down at her book, he spoke the phrase Artem had given him: “The Pillars of the Earthis his best book.”

“I prefer his more contemporary novels,” she replied. “Eye of the Needleis the best.”

With the sign and countersign delivered and their bona fides established, he extended his hand. “Harvath.”

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