by Brad Thor
“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 mai
ntained 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 extremely 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?”
“When the president promised to bring change to Washington, I didn’t expect it to include his Marine Corps helicopters.”
Alden chuckled. “You can thank Mrs. Gallo for your transportation, Mr. Harvath. That was her helicopter you flew here on.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” responded Gallo, not certain whether the man was trying to be charming or if he was being a smart-ass. She didn’t like people she couldn’t read. They tended to be difficult to control, which made them difficult to work with.
“Why don’t we take a seat?” suggested Alden as he motioned Harvath to one of the couches. On a low table was a silver coffee service. “May I offer you some coffee?”
“Thank you,” said Harvath.
Alden filled three cups and once they were all seated with their coffee, the president got down to business. “Mr. Harvath, I’ve asked you here today on a very sensitive matter. Are you familiar with a man named Mustafa Khan?”
Harvath shook his head. “No. I’m not.”
The president opened a dossier and read. “Mustafa Jamal Khan. Dual British/Pakistani citizen, age thirty-six. One of Osama bin Laden’s junior lieutenants, Khan was born in the U.K. to Pakistani parents. He attended university in Britain, as well as al-Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He has a degree in finance and worked in insurance, international banking, and at the London stock exchange before giving everything up and moving to Karachi and committing himself to al-Qaeda full-time. He was said to have been moving back and forth between Afghanistan and Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier Province, where he helped plan a series of deadly terrorist attacks, including the assassinations of several high-ranking Afghan government officials. No one had ever been able to pinpoint his exact location until the Afghan National Army captured him just over a week ago. They now have him awaiting trial in Kabul and plan to make an example of him.”
Closing the folder and handing it to Harvath, Alden then said, “Three days ago, Mrs. Gallo’s daughter, Julia, was kidnapped in Afghanistan.”
“I’m so sorry about that,” said Harvath as he accepted the folder and opened it.
The president continued. “The people holding her have agreed to let her go in exchange for Mustafa Khan.”
At that, Harvath looked up from the file. “Do we know who has her?”
“Based on our intelligence, we believe we’re dealing with Taliban militants aligned with al-Qaeda.”
“Do we think Mullah Omar has a hand in this?”
“Him or someone close to him,” replied the president.
“What about the Afghan government?” asked Harvath. “What’s their position on this?”
“When the ANA tracked Khan down, he was being protected by a cadre of more than fifteen al-Qaeda bodyguards. The Afghans suffered heavy losses. More than thirty-five of their soldiers died.”
“And considering the Afghan government wants to put Khan on trial, I’m guessing they’re not exactly amenable to handing him over to us so we can trade him for Mrs. Gallo’s daughter?”
Alden gave Stephanie Gallo a glance as if to say, See? I told you this man knows what he’s doing, and then replied, “No, they’re not. And unfortunately, we can’t force the Afghans to cooperate.”
Harvath sensed that they were beginning to close in on the reason he had been invited to this meeting. “Even though we’re talking about an American citizen, the kidnapping happened in Afghanistan, so that means that the Afghans have authority over this.”
“Correct,” replied Alden.
“I assume CIA, FBI, DIA, State, and all of our military assets in the region are at the disposal of the investigation?”
The president nodded.
Harvath had been down this delicate road before and knew how to read between the lines. “I’m guessing you want to make sure no options go unexplored, is that correct?”
“Exactly,” stated Gallo.
Alden held up his hand to quiet her. “Mr. Harvath, I did my homework before asking you here. While I regret having to close the project you were working on under the previous administration, it was by no means a comment on your exceptional abilities or exemplary service to our nation.”
Harvath had never been comfortable with fulsome praise and was doubly suspicious when it came from politicians. “Should I assume that the reason I’m here is to assist in the recovery of Mrs. Gallo’s daughter?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Alden.
There was something the man wasn’t telling him.
The president took a deep breath, his cheeks filling with air, and exhaled slowly before responding. “The Afghans have not made an acceptable amount of progress
on Julia’s kidnapping. In all fairness, I believe the government in Kabul means well, but they . . .” Alden trailed off as he tried to find the right words.
Gallo had no trouble coming up with them. “The entire government in that shithole of a country is inept and they don’t have control over anything. They can’t even move around Kabul without heavily armored convoys. The Taliban and al-Qaeda, on the other hand, go wherever they like whenever they like. We’ve put billions of dollars and countless lives into that country and what do we have to show for it? Not nearly enough, that’s for damn sure.”
She had hit the nail on the head and all three of them knew it. Harvath looked at the president, who replied, “Mrs. Gallo is a good friend of mine, and I want to do everything possible to get her daughter back.”
Harvath looked back down at the file. “It says here that Mrs. Gallo offered a sizable ransom, but it was turned down.”
“Ten million dollars,” stated the media titan.
It was an incredible amount of money.
“They’ve made it very clear,” said Alden, “that they’re interested in one thing and one thing only—the release of Mustafa Khan.”
“So what is it exactly you want me to do?” asked Harvath.
“Give him to them,” replied Gallo.
Harvath looked up at her. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she said. “We want you to travel to Afghanistan, snatch Mustafa Khan out of that prison in Kabul, and exchange him for my daughter.”
CHAPTER 8
“This is a pretty dangerous operation we’re talking about,” said Harvath.
“And from what I understand,” replied Gallo, “you’re not exactly allergic to getting your hands dirty.”
“Pardon me?” he said, not sure he was hearing this woman correctly.
“Are you having a problem understanding me, Mr. Harvath?”
“I think I might be.”
Gallo looked at the president and rolled her eyes.
