Page 112 of Spymaster

Sending out a text, they told Staelin and Ashby where to find them. Then they set up a small camera and took turns watching the ebb and flow of people, hoping to find a pattern.

Unfortunately, there was nothing special or predictable about any of the traffic. They saw a babushka—a little old woman who was likely the custodian—go in and come out several times from the building, sweeping and handling other menial labor chores.

In the Soviet days, babushkas were often informants who gladly passed on even the slightest pieces of gossip to the authorities. They were quick to report any unusual activity. She would need to be avoided.

And while she probably had keys to all the apartments, Harvath wasn’t interested. He could get into them without her. What he needed was information. What time did Tretyakov normally leave? What time did he normally come home? Did he entertain during the week? Did he own a vehicle?

All they had was where he lived, where he worked, and an outdated photo Nicholas had been able to uncover.

“Got him,” Chase suddenly said.

Harvath, who had been preparing to burst an encrypted SITREP back to the United States, looked over the edge of the roof.

In his suit and overcoat, with a leather briefcase slung from his shoulder, he looked every inch the unassuming businessman or government worker.

He paused for a moment on the sidewalk, chatting amiably with the babushka, who had followed him outside with a piece of mail.

He smiled at the old woman, but his eyes swept the street, scanning for anything unusual or out of place. He was alert, but relaxed, about to conduct his morning ritual of walking to work.

“Where are you going?” Chase asked as he saw Harvath get up.

“I’m going to follow him.”

“Are you nuts? He knows what you look like. If he even feels you on him, it could blow this whole thing.”

“He won’t feel me,” Harvath reassured him. “He won’t even know I’m there.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Stay here and watch his building.”

Chase shook his head. The decision felt impulsive to him. It was a huge risk and he couldn’t begin to fathom what Harvath thought he might gain from it.

Heading downstairs, Harvath climbed back out the rear window and came around the side of the building. Very carefully, he headed up the street after Tretyakov.

Most carnivores have a finely honed prey drive. It is the instinctive impulse to hunt and capture their food. The better the hunter, the better it is able to sense when it is being hunted. It was the same for human beings.

Most people, though, had deadened themselves to their instincts. They had stopped listening altogether. When their gut told them something was wrong, they rationalized the warning away. When the danger finally made itself too obvious to ignore, it was often too late to react.

Humans who hunted other humans had a highly developed prey drive. They could sense the presence of other hunters long before they could see them. Chase had been right to warn Harvath.

What Chase hadn’t fully learned yet, though, was how to mask the signals that other hunters pick up on. There was an energy, an intensity, that took over the moment the prey drive kicked in. As the hunter locked on to his quarry, it was like projecting a tractor beam.

The key to staying hidden was to unplug the beam, to turn it off by denying it any energy. It was a rather esoteric process. Chase jokingly referred to it as “The Force.” And while Harvath didn’t have a term for it, the best explanation he had ever found for it was in a book about Zen mysticism. Essentially, he removed his ego from the process. The hunt was neither good nor bad. Its outcome would be what it would be and was therefore, out of his control.

The ability to remove himself was what made him such an effective predator. Combined with the skills he had learned from the Old Man, he had risen to the very top of the pyramid. He was an apex predator, a hunter of other hunters.

One of the most important things about being an apex predator was to try not to appear like one. Once other predators noticed you, they immediately took interest and wanted to know what was going on.

So, like sheep around the world, he took out his phone and pretended to be looking at it as he walked. With his shoulders hunched and his head down, he fit right in with everyone else.

Just based on the time of day, Harvath had assumed Tretyakov was headed to his office, but as they neared the river, he watched him take a detour.

Up ahead was a short bridge covered with padlocks. On the other side was Kneiphof, the twenty-five-acre island Kuznetsov had told him about—Tretyakov’s “quiet place” where he sought refuge when he needed to get away from the office.

It seemed odd to be starting the day there, but who could say? Perhaps he just enjoyed passing through on his way to work.

As he watched the man cross the bridge, he unslung his backpack and removed a brightly colored guidebook. He opened to the section on Immanuel Kant and Königsberg Cathedral. Then, once he felt he had given the GRU officer enough of a lead, he began following him again.

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