by Brad Thor
“I’ll make it easy for you. I think your pal at Jordanian Intelligence is pulling your chain. There’s no way they’d play chicken with a potential terrorist attack. Not a chance in hell.”
“So you think he’s making it up?” said Ryan.
“I think everybody’s making things up.”
“You mean Durkin?”
McGee nodded. “Your destab team was top notch, but they broke the cardinal rule—they got caught.”
“But they all got canned.”
“No way,” he replied. “They may have been scrubbed from the rolls, but there’s no way Durkin let those guys go. They were too good. From what I heard, they had multiple reprimands. You were considered a by-the-book player and attaching you to that team was a last-ditch effort to rein them in. When things went south, they were shut down.” McGee made air quotes as he said the words shut down.
“But Durkin told me to my face that he has no idea what they’re up to or where they are.”
“C’mon, Ryan. Don’t be so naïve. He’s a spook, just like you. He’s paid to lie to people.”
McGee was right. “I don’t get it. We’re just supposed to ignore potentially actionable intel from the Jordanians?”
“How well do you know Nasiri?”
“Very well. He took a shoulder full of shrapnel for me. Probably saved my life,” she replied.
“And you trust him?”
“I wouldn’t be wasting my time, or yours, if I didn’t. Listen, I agree. I think holding back information on a terrorism plot is particularly bad form for an ally, but if our positions were reversed I’d do the exact same thing. In fact, I’d probably do more.”
McGee flipped slowly through the material again as he spoke. “If this is legitimate, it’s pretty damning, regardless of whether or not your old team is still working for Durkin. If it can be proven that the United States not only cooked up and carried out the Arab Spring, but is continuing to topple governments throughout the Middle East, that’s going to cause an international firestorm. It’ll sink this administration.”
“I don’t care about the political ramifications. What I care about is stopping a terrorist attack from being carried out on U.S. soil. We’re not going to get any help from the Jordanians without giving them something in return.”
“Why not take this to someone above Durkin?”
“You don’t think I already thought of that? What if I’m wrong? What if the Jordanians are playing me? I’ll look like a fool. Worse, I could end up looking like I cooked this whole thing up just to embarrass Durkin.”
McGee shook his head. “You can’t go tearing after this without some sort of approval. You have to get someone to sprinkle holy water on it.”
“And who’s going to do that?”
He tapped the folder against his knee as he ran the possibilities through his mind. “What if I could get you into the director’s office?”
Ryan laughed. “Who do you think I was contemplating going over Durkin’s head to? The DCI’s a tyrant. He hates when the chain of command isn’t followed. He’ll just kick it back to Durkin and pin a pink slip to my back with a knife.”
“I’m not talking about the Director of Central Intelligence. I’m talking about the other director—the DCI’s boss.”
“The Director of National Intelligence?”
McGee nodded.
“How do you have that kind of pull?” she asked.
“I’m an important guy.”
Ryan laughed again. “Yeah, right.”
“Your lack of faith aside, if I can make a meeting with the DNI happen, are you interested?”
“What makes you think he won’t kick it back to our director, who’ll then fire me for violating the chain of command?”
“Because I’ll protect you.”
“Protect me how?” asked Ryan.
“The DNI and I go back a long way and he owes me some favors. I’ll make sure you’ve got cover.”
“If you can guarantee cover, I’m in.”
As McGee leaned over his desk to reach for the phone, he shooed Ryan out of his office. “Give me twenty minutes.”
Nodding, she stepped out into the hall. Coming to see McGee had been the right thing to do. She had felt it even before walking into his office. The only problem was that walking out of his office, she was now feeling something else and it troubled her more than the prospect of being chewed out for violating the CIA chain of command, or even being fired.
She was gripped by the fear that no matter what strings her mentor might pull, it wouldn’t matter, because they were already too far behind to catch up.
CHAPTER 15
WASHINGTON
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
Harvath pulled up in front of the chipped brick warehouse and checked the rusted numbers above the door against the address the Old Man had given him. He appeared to be at the right place.
Though he normally didn’t leave anything of value in his SUV, he did a quick visual sweep of the seats just to make sure. This neighborhood wasn’t exactly in the town’s garden district and the last thing he wanted to do was tempt some passing thug into a quick smash-and-grab.
Preparing to exit the vehicle, he adjusted his weapon. He was convinced that one of the biggest reasons D.C. was so dangerous was that its citizens weren’t allowed to defend themselves and legally carry firearms. The criminals knew this and took full advantage. A proponent of the belief that it was better to be judged by twelve than carried by six, Harvath always carried his .45-caliber H&K USP Compact in a custom Blackhawk “Check Six” holster placed securely behind his right hip, wherever he was. One of the few exceptions was that afternoon when he had gone straight from the airport to the Federal Reserve Building. As a rule, any weapons used overseas stayed overseas.
By and large, most of the rules Harvath lived by served him well. Some, though, were more difficult to reconcile with circumstances than others. His maxim that there was no such thing as a perfect crime was a prime example. Whether it was a terrorist attack, a kidnapping, or a murder, there were always clues to be found. But in the case of the kidnapped Fed candidates, the clues were proving to be extremely hard to find.
With some help from the Old Man, Harvath had turned his study into a makeshift war room and they officially launched their investigation. They began with what Harvath had hoped would be the easiest and quickest route to uncovering potential suspects—the Internet.
Though he didn’t know much about the Fed, he did know that their critics were fairly outspoken. Some of the better known ran the gamut from pundits to business leaders and members of Congress, while the lesser known were simply day-to-day citizens. He used every mix of search terms he could come up with. He began with a generic search for the “Sons of Liberty” and because of its historical relevance was gifted with over a million prospective returns.
He tried to narrow it down by adding the term “Federal Reserve” to the search and ended up with just over thirteen thousand possibilities. From there, he added the names of the kidnapped candidates and hit a digital wall. As best he could tell, none of the terms appeared together, at least not openly anywhere on the Web.
Stripping out the “Sons of Liberty” from his search, he entered the hostages’ names along with the term “Federal Reserve.” He even tried adding the Henry Hazlitt quote about today being the “tomorrow” that the bad economist told us to ignore. The results were a mixed bag and not very helpful. There wasn’t anyone, at least not on the open Internet, calling for any of the victims to be harmed, much less killed.
Harvath turned his attention to the police reports. He had been through Claire Marcourt’s file a hundred times. It felt like there was something missing, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
He read through the reports of the other kidnap victims, searching for some common thread, but the only thing he seemed to be able to come up with was that the kidnappings had been very well executed. They had all happened on the same night, but in different c
ities, which meant that multiple teams had to have been used. That was a plus, as far as Harvath was concerned. The more people involved in any plot, the greater the chances were that one of them would screw up. The challenge, however, was allocating enough assets to a case in order to see the screw-up the moment it happened, jump on it, and leverage it to your advantage.
The Carlton Group, though, didn’t have many assets, much less extra ones they could move from project to project, as they’d been forced to let most of their people go. At the moment, Harvath was it, conducting the entire investigation himself out of his house, with his study acting as ground zero and the overflow spilling into the hall.
Even the Old Man was limited by how much time he could spare. He had spent a few hours with Harvath on the assignment before having to leave to deal with the fallout from the Sienna Star operation.
Though he didn’t come right out and say it, Carlton had also been troubled by Claire Marcourt’s murder. Harvath could see it in his face and by how much time he had spent with the file. He’d scanned all the contents onto his laptop and uploaded them onto a secure FTP site before walking outside to place a lengthy phone call. When he came back in and announced that he was leaving, he handed Harvath a slip of paper with the address for a warehouse and WWII written on it.
The initials stood for William Wise II. “He’s expecting you,” the Old Man had said on his way out the door.
“Expecting me for what? Who is he?”
“He used to work for the Agency, brilliant guy. Knows something about everything. I gave him the file. He might have some insight.”
Harvath tried to ask what kind of work Wise had done and what made him so special, but Carlton was in a hurry and gone before the conversation could go any further. He figured he’d learn soon enough.
Walking up to the front of the building, Harvath noticed several low-visibility security precautions. While they may have been in response to the neighborhood’s crime rate, Harvath suspected there might be another, much more realistic reason. Whoever this Bill Wise person was, he had some very dangerous enemies.
CHAPTER 16
Bill Wise looked like Santa Claus crossed with one of the toughest bikers the Hell’s Angels had ever produced. He had white hair, a thick white beard, and towered over Harvath by a good five inches and an additional seventy-five pounds.
He wore dark jeans, a pair of black Frye boots, and a faded Dallas Cowboys jersey. On his right wrist was a copper bracelet—the kind used for warding off arthritis, and on his left was an expensive Panerai diver’s watch.
As Harvath stepped inside, Wise stole a quick glance toward the street, closed the door, and then offered his hand.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Wise.”
“First of all, it’s Doctor Wise and second of all, give me a break with all the formalities,” he replied with a smile. “If Peaches says you’re okay, then that’s good enough for me.”
Peaches was the nickname the Old Man had been known by back in the day. According to legend, he was one of the roughest interrogators the Central Intelligence Agency had ever produced. He had a reputation for taking the hardest cases, the worst of the worst, and could be absolutely brutal with the enemy. It was said that if lives hung in the balance and time was of the essence, Reed Carlton was the man you wanted on the job. The fact that he was willing to go to some pretty extraordinary lengths in his interrogations had earned him the amusing and also chilling sobriquet of Peaches. He was anything but sweet.
Signaling for Harvath to follow, Wise led him into the warehouse. They passed through a small reception area, its walls covered with pictures. In addition to noticing that Wise had traveled the world, often heavily armed and in the presence of indigenous fighters, he discerned that the man was a scuba diver, private pilot, Eagle Scout, photographer, motorcyclist, NASCAR and IndyCar fan, and a hunter with a ranch in San Saba County, Texas.
“Do you hunt?” Wise asked after noticing Harvath admiring his ranch photos.
“Strictly bipeds these days.”
Wise chuckled and led him through a heavy sliding door into the main section of the building. It was a large, loftlike space with thick metal trusses and a pristine, epoxy-coated concrete floor. Parked near a wide roll-up door was a trio of perfectly restored vintage SUVs—a green 1960s Land Rover, a metallic gray 1970s International Harvester Scout, and a white 1980s Jeep Grand Wagoneer with wood paneling. Beyond them were a handful of older motorcycles in varying states of refurbishment. Harvath could make out a Triumph Bonneville as well as an Indian and what looked like a Crocker.
“Are you the force behind all of these restorations?” Harvath asked.
“I am,” Wise replied. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved taking things apart and putting them back together.”
As Harvath admired the machines, the man added. “Don’t ever retire. You’d be surprised how expensive ‘puttering’ turns out to be.”
This time, Harvath chuckled. He still had no idea what Wise had done for a living, but if he was like any of the other retired spooks he’d met in his lifetime, Wise had probably done his share of consulting after leaving the Agency and had made quite a few bucks doing it.
The garage portion of the warehouse ended at an enormous floor-to-ceiling glass display case. Inside was row after row of vintage typewriters and antique sewing machines. The display delineated the beginning of Wise’s living area.
There was a stainless steel kitchen, a massive library with columns of twelve-foot-high bookshelves that went all the way to the structure’s rear wall, and a giant drafting table that served as the man’s desk. Hanging on the wall near it were a myriad of degrees, one of them a Ph.D. in psychology, as well as several diplomas and commendations from the Army’s 75th Ranger Regiment and 5th Special Forces Group. Next to those was a sleeping area, then a living room with a sectional couch, and finally a wooden bar that looked like it had been salvaged out of some small Irish pub.
“Something to drink?” Wise asked, walking around behind the bar.
“What do you have?” said Harvath, regretting the question almost as soon as he had asked it.
“Whiskey or ice tea.”
“I guess I’ll have an ice tea.”
“Whiskey it is,” said Wise, removing two glasses and setting them atop the bar. “I’m all out of ice tea.”
There was a brightly colored oil painting collage of George Washington hanging behind the bar. Harvath thought he recognized the artist. “That’s a Penley, isn’t it?”
“It is,” the man answered as he handed Harvath his drink. “Great artist and an even greater American. I stumbled onto him a few years ago and now try to get to all of his exhibits.”
“A body in motion,” Harvath offered.
“Tends to stay in motion. Words to live by in retirement.”
“What exactly is it that you retired from?”
Wise took a sip of his drink. “The best way I ever heard it described was ‘armed anthropology.’ I was in the Army for a long time, predominantly the Special Operations community. The Army put me through undergrad and grad school, where I made the art of killing my focus.”
“You mean how soldiers kill?”
“Not just soldiers: anyone or any organization. Soldiers, law enforcement officers, gang members, contract killers and assassins, psychopaths, nation-states, terrorists—you name them and I studied them.”
“Sounds very interesting.”
“Fascinating stuff and I didn’t leave a stone unturned. From how our kill rate in combat skyrocketed once the Army switched from bull’s-eye targets to silhouettes, all the way to how and why mass murderers select their victims and places of attack.
“What I uncovered is that there is a particular mental makeup that excels in combat. Certain aspects of that makeup could be taught, so that day-to-day soldiers are more efficient on the battlefield, but there are other aspects that can’t be learned. You have to come wired a certain way. As we
drilled down and began identifying what those mental markers were, our results began to shape the screening process for certain compartments within the Special Operations community.”
Compartments. Harvath found the word choice interesting, as if it were something that needed to be contained. “So the military was looking to select for its most lethal killers.”
“That was part of it, but as you know, Special Operations is about a lot more than just killing the enemy. In my case, we were also trying to teach the Army’s SF teams what to screen for when they infiltrated foreign countries and worked with insurgent groups. Our Green Berets needed mini-Ph.D.s that would help them evaluate the potential in the combatants they were supporting. In essence, they needed to be able to rapidly assess if they were helping elevate and train the right people, or if there were better candidates for certain positions. Like I said, I found it to be fascinating work.”
“The Agency must have thought so, too, at some point if you ended up over there, right?”
“They did,” said Wise, taking another sip of his drink. “It was at a time when they were experimenting with a lot of interesting programs. They made me an offer that the Army couldn’t even come close to matching, so I moved over to Langley.”
“Where you continued what you had been doing for the Army?”
“But with much bigger budgets.”
“Off book or on?” asked Harvath, referring to where the money had come from for these interesting programs.
“What do you think?”
Completely black and off the books, thought Harvath. Wise’s area of expertise was not something the CIA would have likely wanted congressional input on. The politicians would have only watered it down, if not shut it down completely. Members of Congress barely understood the complexities of the military battlefield. What they knew of the intelligence battlefield you could fit in a shot glass.
“Okay, so you’re Dr. Kill, armed anthropologist,” Harvath continued. “Why am I here?”
Wise had been called that so many times, he’d lost count. Normally, it made him smile. This time, though, his face was dead serious. “You’re here because Reed Carlton thinks I might be able to help with your case.”
