Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3

by Brad Thor

  His sole mandate had been to help protect Americans and American interests at home and abroad by leveling the playing field with the world’s terrorists. And since they chose not to play by any rules, Harvath wasn’t expected to either.

  He took the tactics from his enemies that worked and turned those tactics right back on them. He had also invented several of his own along the way. Harvath took no pleasure in the killing he was required to do for his country, but he understood that to keep America from harm, violent men often had to be met with violence. The men Harvath killed were beyond diplomacy; beyond being reasoned with. Violence was the only language they understood.

  President Robert Alden, though, was of a different mind. The winds of change had blown him into office and because of that he believed he had been given a mandate. The hawks had flown high above the American political landscape for eight years; now the doves had taken flight. The American people had spoken. That was democracy and Harvath both understood and respected it, but America wouldn’t make its enemies disappear just by putting someone new in the Oval Office. The republic would always need its sheepdogs, no matter which way the political winds blew.

  Maybe Alden would get lucky and actually bring about true reform in the American intelligence community, but if what he had done so far was any indication of what was to come, things were not going to get any better any time soon.

  Bureaucrats at the CIA and elsewhere were too risk-averse and too concerned with getting promoted to focus on beating America’s enemies. The men and women in the field were not getting the resources they needed, nor were they getting even halfway decent management or leadership. The nation spent billions of dollars to find solutions to intelligence problems that shouldn’t even exist. Americans slept soundly in their beds at night believing their country had countless James Bonds around the world infiltrating terrorist networks and rogue regimes in order to keep them safe and prevent the next attack. If they only knew the real truth, they’d be marching on D.C. with torches and pitchforks. How nineteen goatherds could do what they did on 9/11 to the most powerful nation on the face of the earth was still beyond Harvath. What puzzled him more was that heads had not rolled at the CIA over the attacks.

  Accountability, as well as personal responsibility, had been chucked out the window of American government. It also had been abdicated by the American voter. As long as most Americans could have their McDonald’s drive-throughs, listen to their iPods, and watch American Idol, they didn’t seem to care how negligently the nation’s national security apparatus was being run.

  Bread and circuses. The Romans had it right. As long as people had food and fun, they didn’t care much about the erosion of their nation.

  That said, a small and growing number of Americans did care, and as their voices grew, Harvath hoped they would attract more attention to themselves and more attention to what needed to be done. Time was running out for the ineffective “business as usual” system in Washington. One day soon, the American citizenry was going to wake up. Harvath only hoped it wouldn’t take another catastrophic attack to make that happen.

  For his part, Harvath was glad to have cast off the bureaucratic shackles of Washington. As of June 1, he would start a new position in the private sector with a private intelligence-gathering company. Not only would he continue to use his full skill set in the service of his country, he’d also be increasing his income several times over. It looked like the perfect win-win situation, and no matter what Harvath did, he was always about winning.

  He hit the seven-mile mark on his run and clicked the button on his Kobold chronograph to halt the stopwatch. He slowed to a walk and used the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. When he looked down at his dog, he noticed something was wrong. The hair on Bullet’s back was standing straight up.

  They were deep in moose territory and there was always the possibility of an encounter with a black bear or a bobcat, but they tended to shy away from humans, unless they had young with them and you got too close.

  Harvath stopped walking and tried to discern what was bothering Bullet. As he did, the dog began growling. They were less than fifty yards from where Harvath had left his SUV, and that was the direction Bullet’s attention seemed drawn to.

  Something told him he’d better get control of his dog, but when he reached for his collar, Bullet took off.

  Harvath yelled for him to stop, but the dog kept going. For a fraction of a second, Harvath stood transfixed. It was like watching a lion charge across the savanna.

  The beauty of the moment was short-lived. The dog was likely headed for danger, and Harvath took off after him.

  He soon disappeared into the trees near where Harvath had parked his truck and began barking. It wasn’t his normal bark, and Harvath was now certain that something was very wrong.

  Running at a full-out sprint, he came around a stand of trees and noticed the front door of his Trailblazer was wide open, and parked right behind the SUV, blocking it in, with its engine still running, was a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe.

  Bullet stood on his hind legs with his huge front paws pressed against the Tahoe’s driver’s-side window. He was barking even louder and more angrily than before, his long, sharp teeth gnashing together.

  Harvath drew the Taurus TCP .380 he jogged with and approached the Tahoe. As he got closer, he saw that it had government plates. He didn’t know what it was doing here, but he didn’t like it.

  Leaving Bullet to distract whoever was inside, Harvath kept his gun out of sight and approached the passenger-side window. Sitting in front were two men of medium build with short hair and dark suits. They looked like Feds, Secret Service or maybe FBI, but that still didn’t explain what they were doing in the middle of nowhere parked behind his SUV and why one of his doors had been opened.

  Harvath had always lived by the maxim have a smile for everyone you meet and a plan to kill them. It was what had kept him alive in his particularly dangerous line of work. The key was in striking the right balance between healthy suspicion and crippling paranoia; not an easy feat with the number of enemies Harvath had made over the years. Part of the appeal of Maine had been that nobody knew him here and he could relax. It was a plan that had been working right up until just a few moments ago.

  Tightening his grip on his weapon, Harvath tapped the glass with his free hand and caught the men inside by surprise.

  The suit in the passenger seat lowered his window, but only partway. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed. “Is that your dog?”

  “And my truck,” replied Harvath, nodding toward the SUV the men had blocked in.

  “You want to call him off?”

  After scanning the inside of the Tahoe, Harvath whistled. Bullet growled for a few seconds, then leaped down and came around to Harvath’s side of the Tahoe.

  “What’s your name?” demanded the passenger.

  Harvath didn’t like the man’s attitude. “William Howard Taft,” he replied. “What’s yours?”

  Cutting off his less-than-affable partner, the driver answered, “I’m Benson. He’s Wagner. We’re United States Secret Service.”

  As if they had rehearsed this a million times, both men reached into their jackets in unison, ostensibly to remove their credentials.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Harvath. “Let’s take it easy. Nobody needs to be in a hurry.”

  Benson motioned for Wagner to relax, and, using his left hand, he pulled back the left side of his suit jacket to show Harvath what he was doing. Slowly he slid his thumb and forefinger into his inside pocket and retrieved his credentials. He then opened his ID wallet and extended his arm toward Harvath. “We’re from the Portland office.”

  “What were you doing in my truck?”

  “It was unlocked,” interjected Wagner.

  Harvath ignored him and kept his eyes on Benson.

  “We were looking to see if you’d left a map or some indication of which direction you were running,” answered the driver. />
  “Why?”

  “We needed to speak with you as soon as possible. Your girlfriend . . .” said Benson, his voice trailing off as he replaced his credentials and looked down at a notepad on his armrest for the name. “Tracy. She told us we could probably find you out here. She said this was where you normally run.”

  “She didn’t mention that dog, though, did she?” added Wagner angrily. “That fucking thing almost bit me. It’s like a goddamn polar bear. I’m lucky I got back into the car in one piece.”

  Harvath patted Bullet on the head and smiled. Benson seemed okay, but he didn’t care much for this other guy, Wagner. “Good dog,” he said to Bullet, and then, turning back to Benson, asked, “What do you want?”

  “The president needs to see you,” the man replied.

  “Which one?”

  “The new one. President Alden.”

  The name still took some getting used to for Harvath. “Alden?” he repeated. “Why does he want to see me?”

  Benson shook his head. “No idea. We were told to find you and transport you to Greenville Municipal. There’s an aircraft waiting there to take you to him.”

  Wagner looked out his window at Bullet, who began growling at him again.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Harvath as he covertly tucked his weapon into his waistband, covered it with his shirt, and prepared to walk away.

  “Mr. Harvath,” insisted Benson, “we were told that whatever the president wants to discuss with you, it’s very important and very time-sensitive. That’s why we came all the way out here to find you.”

  Harvath had no idea what Alden could possibly want with him, but based on what he had seen of the man’s judgment, it wasn’t anything Harvath wanted to be involved with. If the new president was interested in him, he should have thought of that before he fired him and Harvath had found a new job. “Please tell the president that I respectfully declined. I don’t work for Washington anymore.”

  “In that case,” said Benson as he slowly reached for the glove compartment and opened it, “we were asked to give you this.”

  The agent withdrew a sat phone and handed it to his partner. Wagner, still wary of the dog, balanced it on the partly open window until Harvath took it.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A snow-cone maker,” said Wagner as he rolled his window back up. “You’d think a smart guy like William Howard Taft could figure that out.”

  Harvath took the window rolling up as a sign that their meeting was over and backed Bullet away from the Tahoe just as Benson put it into reverse.

  Moments later the government SUV U-turned onto the deserted logging road and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 7

  The interior of the Super Puma EC225 helicopter was as elegant as any private jet Harvath had ever flown on. White hand-stitched leather seating was complemented by black Hermès pillows and polished chrome tables.

  While it was a little cold for Harvath’s taste, he had to give the helicopter’s owner, whoever he was, points for style. When he had been told that transportation was standing by, this was not at all what he had envisioned. President Alden had surprised him. Whether that was a good thing had yet to be seen. Harvath was reserving judgment until he had actually met the man face-to-face.

  He had returned home with the satellite phone and set it upon the kitchen table while he went upstairs to take a shower and change. When he came down, Tracy was waiting for him with two mugs of coffee. They had gone back and forth about what to do, with Tracy playing devil’s advocate throughout. She knew that as much as Harvath was fully prepared to take on his new job, he still missed his old one. He was a patriot, and serving his country was his ultimate calling.

  In the end, Harvath agreed that it couldn’t hurt to talk. Blowing the new president off, even if he had eliminated the project Harvath had worked on, was probably not the best of ideas—especially with what he did for a living. At some point, he could very well need the president’s help. The least he could do was to hear the man out.

  Harvath went outside and activated the sole number that had been programmed into the satellite phone. On the second ring, the president himself answered.

  Alden was polite, but brief. He was in Maine and wanted to see Harvath in person, hence the helicopter he had standing by. He was not at liberty to explain things over the phone and would fill Harvath in when they met. Though Harvath had not voted for Alden and questioned many of his policies, he still respected the office and agreed to go meet him. Within twenty minutes, Harvath was airborne, and within forty more he had arrived at Seal Harbor.

  Seal Harbor was a very affluent New England enclave located on the southern end of Maine’s Mount Desert Island. While the better-known town of Bar Harbor had been attracting celebrities, tourists, and politicians for generations, Seal Harbor was where the truly rich and powerful could enjoy the island’s thick forests, gently sloping mountains, and jagged coastline without being bothered.

  One such resident was a lifestyle and home-decorating maven with an immensely popular television series. With her primary residence in Manhattan and other homes in Connecticut, upstate New York, and Nantucket, her sixty-two-acre Seal Harbor estate was occupied only a fraction of the year. She often loaned out the twelve-bedroom, pink granite “summer” cottage, which had been built by a wealthy automobile family in the early 1900s, to friends and business associates. Invisible from the road and completely insulated from the public, the estate allowed its guests to get away from it all and relax in an intensely private setting. It was exactly this high degree of privacy that had attracted the estate’s current guests.

  The Super Puma’s tires touched down on an impeccably manicured esplanade of grass. When the air-stairs were lowered, Harvath exited the helicopter and was met by a pair of Secret Service agents, who led him to the main house.

  They walked up a paved path and entered the kitchen via a breezeway. With its retro appliances and vintage furnishings, the room gave one the feeling of having stepped back in time.

  After Harvath was screened for weapons, he was taken down a paneled hallway to a dramatic wooden staircase. Following its red and gold runner to the top of the stairs, he was met by another pair of Secret Service agents, who accompanied him down a long wainscoted hall to a pair of mahogany doors with shiny brass hardware.

  Standing guard there was a lone, female Secret Service agent. Having been recruited to the former president’s protective detail before being tasked to the Apex Project, Harvath still maintained a lot of contacts in the Service. He was aware of how Robert Alden had cleaned house and forced “improvements” there as well.

  His intent had been to demonstrate more diversity in the agents who surrounded him. It was a noble endeavor, but like many other well-intentioned efforts Alden had undertaken, he had rushed through it like a bull in a china shop, more concerned with appearances than results.

  As part of the president’s mandate, many exceptional agents were promoted to his detail, as were many less-than-exceptional agents. Some of the most experienced agents were then asked to step aside and take other assignments outside the White House in order to make room for the younger agents Alden wanted to pull up through the ranks. The president was not only gambling with his life, he was also gambling with the lives of all those sworn to protect him.

  The Secret Service had tried to dissuade the president from such a drastic course of action, but no matter how many alternatives they offered him, Alden wanted the results he wanted and he wanted them immediately. His childish refrain of “I won” was often heard in the White House and was intended to end all discussions. It created much resentment and was beneath the dignity of the office, but the president didn’t seem to care. Such was the depth of his insecurity.

  Looking at the fresh-faced, blond-haired, blue-eyed agent on the door, Harvath wondered if she was one of those who had been recently rocketed to the top of the Secret Service ticket. Over his career, he had known a lot of extr
emely qualified female agents, all of whom had been serious ass-kickers. They had also all paid their dues and earned their stripes. Promoting anyone in this job based on anything other than talent, experience, training, and commitment was a potentially tragic mistake.

  Harvath tried to push the thought from his mind. Alden had made his bed and he would have to lie in it. The president’s policies, as well as the makeup of his protective detail, were not Harvath’s problems.

  Smiling at the agent, Harvath waited as she knocked and then opened the door for him. Once he had stepped inside, she closed the door and resumed her post in the hall.

  The room looked like a study in a British manor house, with soaring ceilings, exposed beams, and tall leaded-glass windows. The walls were covered in silk and exhibited a hodgepodge of oil paintings hung salon style. At the end of the room, near a fireplace large enough for a hockey face-off, were two couches. Sitting upon the couches were two people Harvath had never met, but whom he recognized instantly.

  The first was President Robert Alden. The second, whose presence made no sense to him, was one of the president’s biggest donors and supporters, media mogul Stephanie Gallo.

  Both stood and greeted Harvath as he crossed to the sitting area.

  “Thank you for coming,” said the president, as he shook Harvath’s hand. “Scot Harvath. I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Stephanie Gallo.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Harvath,” said Gallo.

  “Likewise,” replied Harvath as he accepted the woman’s hand. He had seen her on television and in countless magazines, but she was even more stunning in person.

  “I hope your flight in was comfortable.”

  Harvath smiled. “It was very comfortable, but I’m confused.”

  Gallo arched her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. “About what?”