by Brad Thor
Even so, Harvath had not spoken with Lawlor since he and Tracy had left D.C. To a certain degree, he felt guilty about that. Gary had always been there for him and his mother. He was tough, but also fair, and had pulled Harvath’s bacon out of the fire too many times to remember. Harvath owed him a lot more than a phone call right now.
It was just one of those things that had gotten away from him. The longer he put off calling, the harder it was to do it. Gary was a real by-the-book kind of guy. Though his job was to be as unconventional as the terrorists he was charged with hunting, there was still an ingrained sense of due process and fair play that had been instilled in him over his lifelong career at the FBI. He had gotten better about it, but only because he’d learned to save his questions until Harvath was done with an assignment or to not even ask them at all.
Scot had known that when he did finally reconnect with Lawlor, the conversation wasn’t going to be about the weather or the places he and Tracy had visited. He wasn’t much for BS. Harvath knew Gary would stick him with tough questions about when he was coming back and what he was planning on doing in the future. That was probably one of the biggest reasons Harvath had been avoiding him. Until he had answers, the last thing Scot had felt like facing was questions.
But things had changed and Finney was right. Whatever message or marching orders Lawlor might have for him from the president, Harvath had no choice but to shelve his animosity and put Tracy’s welfare first.
Routing through a series of anonymous proxy servers, Harvath tapped into one of his VoIP accounts and dialed Gary’s cell phone back in D.C.
The man answered on the first ring. “Lawlor,” he said, a faint metallic hum to his voice.
Harvath cleared his throat. “Gary? It’s Scot.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. You’ve got every police officer, gendarme, and intelligence operative in France looking for you right now. Do you know that?”
“Popularity is a real pain in the ass,” replied Harvath.
Lawlor chuckled for a moment and then was serious again. “You’ve got big problems, my boy.”
“You wanted me to call you so you could tell me things I already know?” The words came out harsher than Harvath had intended, but he made no effort to pull them back.
“A bombing this morning. A shooting in the afternoon. What do you have planned for this evening?”
“How about a stampede at a local mosque?”
“Don’t jerk me around,” replied Lawlor.
“Fine, I’ll come up with something else,” said Harvath. “What do you want?”
“You drop off the grid for months. No goodbyes, no nothing. Just left your BlackBerry and credentials behind along with a smartass note that says gone fishing and now you’ve got the nerve to act like I’m interrupting your vacation.”
Harvath fought back the urge to defend himself and instead tried to think of Tracy. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have contacted you.”
“You’re damn right you should have,” replied Lawlor. “You’re lucky the president feels beholden to you. No other operative would have been allowed to just disappear the way you have.”
“You could have found us any time you wanted. We’ve both been using our own passports.”
“Give me a break, Scot. Tracking you has been like playing whack-a-mole. One day you pop up on the grid entering a foreign country and then there’s nothing for three weeks or a month till you pop up someplace else just long enough to cross another border and get your passport scanned.”
He was right. Harvath and Tracy had not gone completely to ground, but the only trail they had been leaving to follow was dust. “I needed some time off to think.”
“Well, time’s up. You have to get back to work,” said Lawlor. “The president needs your help.”
Harvath reminded himself to keep the volume of his voice under control. “I don’t work for him anymore. And with all due respect, I don’t work for you either.”
“In that case, you can have all the time you want to think. French prisons are very lonely places—especially for a foreigner.”
“The bad-cop routine doesn’t really work with me, Gary. You should know that.”
“And you should know that the evidence the French have on you does not look good. It could take a couple of years before the investigation into all of today’s events is complete and the case against you is finally brought to trial. You might get your day in court, but under their antiterrorism laws, you’re going to sit in a cell counting the months until it comes. And while you sit there, it’ll be as an American tied to a bombing that killed multiple French citizens and a shooting that resulted in the deaths of three French cops. It’s not going to be like shacking up at the Ritz.”
Harvath started to speak, but Lawlor plowed right over him. “And what about Tracy? Do you want to put her through the same thing? Is that the kind of man you are?”
“Let’s leave Tracy out of this,” said Harvath.
“Too late. She’s in it. Just as deep as you are. Probably even worse now. Are you even aware that the French have taken her into custody?”
Harvath’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t surprised, but it didn’t make having it confirmed any easier to take. “Where?” he asked.
“She showed up at a Parisian hospital about an hour ago and turned herself in.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s undergoing a medical evaluation,” replied Lawlor. “The police have her under guard.”
Harvath was quiet for a moment and then said, “How did you find out about it?”
“The French have video of you at the bombing and the shooting at the Grand Palais. Because of your involvement the president brought me in to help contain things.”
“What about Tracy?” asked Harvath, more concerned about her welfare than his own. “What’s going to happen to her?”
“They’re going to arrest her, book her, the whole deal, but her medical treatment is their first priority. She’s undergoing a CAT scan now.”
“Where? What hospital?”
“No way,” replied Lawlor. “You wouldn’t get within two blocks of it.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Lawlor knew he was right, but that wasn’t the point. “Okay, you could get to her, but it’s not worth the risk, not right now. She’s being taken care of. As head of DHS’s Office of International Investigative Assistance, the president has me helping the French coordinate their investigations into the bombing and the shooting at the Grand Palais.”
“I want to talk to her at least.”
“Not a chance. For all intents and purposes, she’s in French custody now, and just because she happens to be in a hospital doesn’t mean she magically gets afforded any more special treatment than if she was in a jail cell. Besides, I already tried to call her. The French cops took the phone out of her room. They claim they don’t want her colluding with anyone.”
“That’s nuts. You know we had nothing to do with any of this,” said Harvath.
“Well, the French have lots of video that makes them believe otherwise.”
“Rutledge has to help us out of this,” demanded Harvath. “Or at least, Tracy. He owes her that much.”
“We’ll talk about the president in a minute,” said Lawlor. “First I want you to take me through everything that has happened. From the beginning.”
Harvath’s old life had sucked him back in so far he couldn’t even see daylight. With Tracy now in French custody, there was nothing he could do to fight it anymore. He took a deep breath, readjusted himself in his seat to help take some of the pressure off of his battered ribs, and started to speak.
CHAPTER 44
METROPOLITAN POLICE HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“There are a lot of photos in there,” said Aydin Ozbek. “Take your time.”
“Nope,” replied Andrew Salam, turning the laptop around. “That’
s him.”
“You’re sure?” asked Rasmussen.
“Positive. That’s the man who recruited me.”
Ozbek looked at Rasmussen and then turned his eyes back to Salam. “I know you’ve been through this extensively with the FBI, but we need you to go through it with us once more. We need to know how you communicated with him. When and where did you meet? Did he ever come to your home, your office? Did you ever go to his home or office? All of it.”
“You know who this guy is, don’t you?” asked Salam. “He’s CIA, isn’t he?”
“Let’s just take this one step at a time,” said Rasmussen.
“Fuck one step at a time,” retorted Salam. “You know I’m telling the truth. My recognizing this guy proves it.”
He studied the faces of the men sitting across from him. There was something about all of this that he couldn’t quite grasp. Then suddenly, it hit him. “Holy shit. My handler is your assassin, isn’t he? He and al-Din are the same person. That’s why you’re back here talking to me.”
“We don’t know any of that for sure,” replied Rasmussen.
Salam laughed. “All along, the FBI has been panicked that he was one of theirs and now it turns out he’s one of yours.”
“We’re still putting this together—”
Ozbek interrupted his colleague. “The man you ID’d in that photo is Matthew Dodd. He faked his death and disappeared a little over five years ago.”
“About the time he converted to Islam,” offered Salam.
“If what you’ve told us is accurate, then that does seem to fit the timeline.”
“As does recruiting me and setting up the Glass Canyon operation.”
Ozbek nodded, slowly. “Give or take.”
“Then that’s it. You’ve got your proof,” stated Salam. “I’m innocent. You can get me out of here.”
“Identifying Dodd as your handler is one thing. Proving he was, as well as proving that someone other than you killed Nura Khalifa, is something else.”
“But you can help me,” insisted Salam. “If you tell the FBI that Matthew Dodd was my handler, it’ll help prove that I’m telling the truth.”
“We don’t have to tell them anything,” replied Rasmussen.
Ozbek waved him off. Putting his elbows on the table, Ozbek clasped his hands together and rested his chin on his thumbs. “We might be able to help you,” he said, thinking, “but first you have to help us.”
“With what?” asked Salam.
Rasmussen looked at him. “Don’t be stupid, Mr. Salam.”
Once again, Ozbek waved him off. “We’ve got a pretty good idea where Dodd is. We may even know who his target is—”
“Is it Dr. Khalifa?” interrupted Salam. “Was Nura right about it being her uncle?”
“We have reason to believe that Dr. Khalifa is already dead and that there may be another target.”
“So Nura was right,” said Salam, more to himself than to the CIA operatives.
“We don’t know that Dodd killed him,” replied Ozbek. “Not for sure. Not yet. But we believe that there is something larger at play here, and we need to know what that something is.”
Salam looked at his interrogator. “And you think I can help you figure it out?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Ozbek. “But you might be able to point us in the right direction.”
“By giving you the same information I gave to the FBI?”
Ozbek nodded.
Despite having been duped by his so-called FBI recruiter, Andrew Salam wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was far from it. “How do I know that you won’t take the information I give you, find Dodd and feed him into a wood chipper somewhere, then deny we ever had this conversation?”
“You don’t really have much choice,” said Rasmussen. “You’re going to have to trust us.”
Salam laughed once more. “Yeah, right. The way I see it, I’ve got lots of choices. I can talk to the FBI, D.C. Metro Police, or wait until I’m finally given a lawyer and then talk to the press. If anybody doesn’t have much of a choice here, I think it’s the CIA.”
Rasmussen was ramping up with a retort, but Ozbek pointed toward the door. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
“What?” replied Rasmussen.
“Let us have some time alone,” said Ozbek. “Go get a cup of coffee or something.”
Rasmussen sat there for a moment in disbelief. Then, with a grunt, he stood and exited the interrogation room.
Once the door had closed, Salam said, “I thought you guys were okay at first, but he’s starting to turn into an asshole.”
Rasmussen’s specialty was operating in the field, not an interrogation room, and Ozbek let the remark go unchallenged. Reaching into his jacket he removed a new digital camera and powered it up. “The last time we were in here you asked about your dog,” he said as he handed the device to him. “I thought you’d want to see these.”
Salam’s face softened as he scrolled through the pictures. “So the police did take care of him.”
“Not really,” said Ozbek. “They were a lot more concerned with ripping your house apart. They were going to put him in the pound, but I got it all sorted out. He’s with one of your neighbors now.”
“Which one?” Salam asked apprehensively.
“The older guy across the street.”
“Who? The veteran with the P.O.W. flag?”
“Yep,” said Ozbek. “Any problem with that?”
“No,” replied Salam. “He’s a good guy. He did a couple of tours in Vietnam. I don’t think he cared for me much when I moved in, but he came around and has always been polite. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now—”
“What’s your thing with dogs anyway?”
“I’ve got a black Lab.”
“Nice dog,” said Salam. “Smart.”
“Yes, they are,” replied Ozbek. “Listen, Andrew, you need to know that the FBI has uncovered e-mails between you and Nura Khalifa as well as some other pieces of evidence that suggest you two were having a relationship.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“The evidence suggests that Nura had met with you to tell you that the relationship was over.”
“But there was no relationship,” insisted Salam. “It was strictly professional.”
Ozbek shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”
“What other pieces of evidence do they have?”
“Whatever they are, it seems to point to an if I can’t have her no one can motive for murder.”
“But I didn’t kill her. We were attacked. I told you that. I’m not an idiot. If, and the key word here is if, I was going to kill somebody, do you think I’d be dumb enough to choose a location where I’d have to disarm Park Police security cameras? I couldn’t even do that if I had wanted to.
“You have to believe me. Nura and I were both targets. They wanted us dead and when I survived they planted all of that BS information to make it look like we had a relationship and that I wanted to kill her because she was going to leave me.”
“That’s a lot of work,” said Ozbek.
“So is knocking out surveillance cameras at the Jefferson Memorial.”
Ozbek couldn’t argue with that.
“These people aren’t the turban-wearing morons most of our politicians think they are,” continued Salam. “They’re extremely sophisticated, and have resources you can’t even begin to imagine. If you knew the places their operatives had wormed their way into, you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. They have armies of sympathizers, legions of apologists, and one of the best crafted public relations and media strategies ever created. These people make the Nazis look like amateurs.
“This is the most dangerous threat this nation has ever faced, and yet I’m going to hang for trying to do my duty as an American to take them down. This isn’t justice, it’s bullshit.”
Ozbek looked at him. “You’re right. It is bullshit.”
“So you
believe me, then?”
Ozbek nodded. “But I have to be honest with you. There is a limit to how much we can do for you. This investigation belongs to the FBI and D.C. Metro. The CIA has no official role in it whatsoever.”
“What about Dodd? Capturing him would change things, wouldn’t it?”
“Probably,” replied Ozbek, “but he could turn around and cut a deal with the CIA to give them something of greater value.”
Salam shook his head. “And I’d still be screwed.”
“It happens. I just want you to be aware of that.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Andrew, you’re in a tough position. Based on how the deck is stacked against you, nobody would blame you at this point for clamming up and waiting for a lawyer.”
“Why are you telling me all of this? If I go to the press about Dodd, it could be very embarrassing for the CIA.”
“They’re big boys and girls,” said Ozbek. “They’ve got people who know how to handle spin.”
“But still,” replied Salam, pressing his point.
“You’re a good guy, Andrew. Somebody screwed you big time, yet you’ve cooperated every step of the way with us. And I think you’ve cooperated because you know you haven’t done anything wrong. More importantly, you know what you were doing was for the good of your country and that’s what honorable people in this nation do.
“I can’t promise I can unfuck everything you’re in, but if you help me, I will promise that I’ll do everything I can to track down Matthew Dodd and make sure that he and his Islamist pals won’t do any further harm to America.”
Salam thought about it. It didn’t take long. He knew what the right thing to do was. “Take out a pen,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER 45
PARIS
Dodd had found the director of the Bilal Mosque in his office. “The police are on their way!” he screamed at Dodd in French after the assassin had kicked in his door and entered his office.
“They’ll come all right,” replied Dodd as he closed the door behind him, “but not until they have amassed many men. Your neighborhood doesn’t exactly have the best reputation. Frankly, the police are just as terrified of coming here as everyone else.”
