by Brad Thor
It was a good point. “Okay, let’s say that’s what happened. How did the Russians know Carl and I were connected, much less that he helped me with everything?”
“Simple. He messed up.”
Harvath shook his head. “No way. Not him.”
Turning his attention away from his Cohiba, Nicholas looked at his friend. “Everybody makes mistakes. I’ve made mine. The Old Man made his. And you’ve definitely made more than your share.”
“I’m not saying he was incapable of making mistakes. I’m just saying I never saw it. I never heard about any, either. The Old Man said Carl was one of the best he’d ever seen. The Norwegians are neighbors with the Russians. They can’t afford mistakes. Not even small ones.”
“Okay. For the sake of argument, let’s say Carl Pedersen was perfect. He never made a mistake. What does that leave you with?”
Harvath swirled the ice in his glass again as he reflected. “Someone else made the mistake. Someone close to him.”
The little man nodded and went back to puffing on his cigar. “If that thread exists, then you need to find it so we can pull on it. Hard.”
Even in its alcohol-soaked state, Harvath’s brain began running through the possibilities, ruling in and out a myriad of different scenarios.
What quickly became clear was that as with any complicated equation, if you were missing data, it made it nearly impossible to solve the problem. Harvath knew Carl Pedersen, but he had no clue who Pedersen trusted and may have talked to. They had kept their relationship tightly compartmentalized—for the safety of them both.
With the dogs sleeping nearby, the porch fell quiet again. Harvath and Nicholas, captive to their own thoughts, smoked their cigars and sipped their drinks in silence.
After a few minutes had passed, Nicholas said, “There’s something else I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” Harvath asked, staring off into the darkness.
“When the murders happened and you disappeared, Bob McGee brought me a copy of the documents the Old Man had drawn up. They laid out how he wanted the company run after he was gone. It turns out that I was his third choice. And like a good prodigal son, I stepped up. I felt it was my duty, especially after everything that had happened.”
“And?”
“And now I’m stepping down.”
Harvath, somewhat shocked, turned to face him. “You’re what?”
“I have zero qualifications to run this organization; or any organization, to be honest. I appreciate the faith he showed in me, but this isn’t my métier. Where I excel is behind a keyboard, in the ether, moving highly sensitive pieces on a digital chessboard. That’s why you brought me in to begin with. You gave me a chance to be part of something bigger than just myself. And I’ll always be grateful.”
“So, you’re quitting?”
Nicholas shook his head. “You guys are my family. I’m not going anywhere except back to the job I was brought on board to do. I can’t track money, listen to the whispers of the Dark Web, and run down leads while I’m dealing with payroll questions, quarterly projections, and sales targets.”
Harvath waved his hand like he was brushing off a mosquito. “That’s not what you’re supposed to be focused on. That’s why we have a CEO and a CFO—to deal with all the C-Suite issues. You’re supposed be the heart and the brains of the outfit. That’s why the Old Man selected you.”
“That’s why the Old Man selected you,” Nicholas reminded his friend. “I’m not a leader. You are. I stepped up when there was a void, but I never intended for this to be permanent. Now that Nina and I have a baby coming, my capacity for added responsibility is going to diminish pretty quickly.”
This was the last thing Harvath needed. He had been done caring—about everything. He didn’t want to be responsible for Reed Carlton’s legacy, much less the direction of his namesake company.
It made him feel guilty. Not enough to jump in, grasp the mantle of leadership, and save all of it, but guilty nonetheless.
“If you step down, who’s going to take over?” he asked.
“Well,” Nicholas replied, “per the Old Man, the company can be put up for sale and the new owner can decide. Or, you and I can agree to bring somebody else in to do the job.”
“Right now? In the middle of everything that has happened? In the middle of everything that is happening?”
“I would argue we need somebody now, more than ever.”
Harvath had always carried a certain burden of guilt for not agreeing to replace the Old Man. But he had made it very clear that he wasn’t ready to leave the field. Now, with Nicholas saying he wanted to step down, he felt even worse.
“Where in the world are we going to find somebody? It’s not like we can just post this kind of a job on the internet.”
“I’ve already got somebody in mind, but let’s discuss this in the morning. You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Can you do seven a.m.? The Hickory Lodge?”
“I’ll be there,” Harvath replied, grinding his cigar into the ashtray and standing up.
Nicholas gestured toward the bottle. “It’s yours. If you want it.”
“No thanks,” he said as he left for his cabin. “I’m done.”
CHAPTER 10
SATURDAY
Not wanting to miss breakfast, Harvath had set the alarm on the nightstand and had left a wake-up call request with the stewards as a backup. There were only a few hours until then, but a few hours were better than none. Even so, his body didn’t want to comply. He wondered if maybe he should have accepted the bottle of bourbon from Nicholas after all.
He was used to going to bed with a lot more alcohol in his system and it took forever to fall asleep. But once he did, he couldn’t stay asleep—at least not for long.
He tossed and turned until the sun began to rise and then gave up. Dressing in the workout gear from his wardrobe, he decided to go for a run.
Unlike Key West, the morning air was cool and crisp. He wanted to clear the cobwebs and burn off any residual booze in his system.
He pushed himself hard—harder than most mornings. By the time he was done with his run and back at the cabin, he was drenched with sweat. He had been out longer than he had planned and so took a quick shower, shaved, and found something to wear.
At seven a.m., sharp, he opened the door to Hickory Lodge and strode into the restaurant. He was completely unprepared for who he saw sitting with Nicholas.
Judging by the plates of half-eaten food and half-empty coffee mugs, the duo had been there for a while. He could only imagine what they had been talking about, though in all honesty, he had a pretty good idea.
The man sitting across from Nicholas was an accomplished warrior and intelligence operative. He had been based in Berlin during the Cold War, tasked with recruiting foreign intelligence assets. He not only spoke Russian, he had also killed a lot of them.
After the Wall had fallen, he had left U.S. Army Intelligence and gone to work for the FBI, rising to Deputy Director. Later in life, the President had tapped him to run a covert program parked at the Department of Homeland Security called the Office of International Investigative Assistance or OIIA for short. It was as head of OIIA that he had been Harvath’s boss.
Their relationship, though, went back much further. Gary Lawlor had been best friends with Harvath’s dad, Michael. He had stepped in when Michael had been killed and had become a de facto father to him, making sure he and his mother never wanted for anything. He had also pushed Harvath to become the absolute best in whatever he did. They hadn’t seen each other since the funerals for Lara, Lydia, and Reed.
Walking over to him, Scot extended his hand. “It’s good to see you.”
Lawlor stood up, put his arms around him, and pulled him in for a bear hug. He was very fit for a man of his age. “You doing okay?” he asked, quietly enough so no one could hear.
Harvath swallowed hard and nodded. It was the only response he was capabl
e of giving. He didn’t know what would happen if he tried to verbalize what he was really feeling. He was proud and didn’t want to come apart in the middle of such a public place.
Lawlor held him there for an extra moment. He could practically feel the weight of all the sorrow hanging from Harvath’s body, like heavy, iron chains, crushing him. It was a feeling he knew all too well. His wife, though long ago, had been taken from him in a similar fashion.
“It gets better,” he promised.
They were the same words he had given him, months ago. Harvath was still waiting for things to “get better.” Once again, all he could muster in response was a nod.
Patting him on the back, Lawlor broke off the hug and pushed him out to arm’s length. “You’re looking a little on the slim side,” he said, studying him. “How about some breakfast?”
“Sure,” Harvath replied, helping himself to a chair. As he sat down, he looked at Nicholas and asked, “You couldn’t have told me?”
“I didn’t want to spoil the surprise,” the little man responded.
“You and I are going to have a talk later about surprises.”
Nicholas shrugged as Lawlor waved over the server. “Coffee?”
Harvath nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Sure. Eggs, scrambled, crispy bacon, wheat toast, and ice water—lots of it, please.”
The server took the order and once he had left for the kitchen, Lawlor continued catching up, “How’s your mom?”
“She’s good,” he replied. “Nice apartment, great view of the ocean.”
“How often do you get out to see her?”
“Probably not as often as I should.”
When Reed Carlton was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Harvath had started paying more attention to his mother’s lapses in memory. He eventually grew concerned enough to have her tested. The news wasn’t good. She had dementia.
He knew how fiercely independent she was and had offered to hire someone to come in and check on her. To his surprise, she was interested in a local senior living development on Coronado Island. Several of her friends were there and loved it. She could still be independent, but as she needed more care, it could be added on.
While Scot was sorry to see her sell the home he had grown up in, he knew it was time. The best part of the move, though, was how much happier she was in her new place. “All’s well that ends well,” Lara had said. And she had been right. He just wished that they could have gotten to know each other better before Lara had been taken from him.
“I’m sure she understands,” said Gary.
Harvath was going to respond, but stopped as the server returned with a pot of hot coffee and filled all of their mugs.
By the time the man had left the table, Nicholas had changed the subject.
“I’ve got some good news,” he stated. “Gary has done a little digging into what happened down in Key West and—”
“Hold on,” Harvath interrupted. “Gary’s been read into what happened down in Key West?”
“Yes he has. And before you push back, know this. You made your position crystal clear. You didn’t want to run this business. That was fine while Lydia was here, because she was willing to do it. But when she was killed, we had to make new plans. You were MIA, so we did it without you. Gary’s the best person for the job and you know it.”
He did know it, and he couldn’t argue.
“Scot, this has all been moving fast,” said Lawlor. “Nicholas and I have been huddled with Bob McGee since the funerals. Everyone wanted to give you space—including me. But you have to understand, that’s over. The fight’s here and the fight’s now. I said yes to this job because I know that I’m needed and, frankly, because I wanted to work with you again. But all that matters at this point is if you want to work with me. And, of course, if you’re still in the fight.”
Part of Harvath wanted to stand up, walk out, and go back to drinking in Key West, but he couldn’t do that. Lawlor had called him out and no Tier One operator, no American war fighter was ever out of the fight. As long as the country needed them, they would keep going no matter what toll it took.
Even so, Harvath was careful not to knee-jerk himself into a commitment. As much as he loved the Old Man, Carlton had been a master manipulator and had taught him a lot about his gut and people who tried to appeal to him through it.
Instead of answering right away, he circled back to the information Gary uncovered. “What did you find regarding Key West?”
Lawlor removed a folder and slid it across the table. Harvath opened it and, sipping his coffee, scanned the pages as Lawlor narrated.
“The chief in Key West is a graduate of the FBI’s National Executive Institute, and we happen to know each other. His officers showed up moments after you left. The two heavies you laid out both had outstanding warrants, so after they got some much needed medical attention, they were taken into custody. After our initial conversation, the chief made a call to the Florida Attorney General. In exchange for dropping some low-level beefs, they were able to get the suspects to cooperate.
“The bottom line is that someone they don’t know paid them five hundred bucks to get you outside and beat the crap out of you.”
“After which, I was supposed to get a bullet in the head,” said Harvath.
“They claim to have no knowledge of anything else.”
“But they knew enough to remove their jewelry and buy new long-sleeve shirts and boots in order to help avoid identification.”
Lawlor nodded. “From what the Key West chief says, it wasn’t their first rodeo.”
“How far did the chief get read in?”
“Not far at all. The two goons were still unconscious when the cops got there, so they didn’t see anything. No one but us knows about the would-be shooter.”
It was good intel. Lawlor had come through for them and he had done it quickly.
Harvath turned to Nicholas. “Have we identified the corpse?”
“Not yet,” the little man answered, “but his weapon was pretty interesting. Glock 43. Single stack magazine. Nine-millimeter. It was modified with a switch that stops the slide from cycling. Not only does it make it quieter, but it prevents the brass from being ejected. The suppressor appears to have been 3D-printed. Perfect for a professional, one-and-done assignment.”
“What’d you do with the body?”
“It’s someplace safe, on ice for the time being.”
“What’s next?”
“Next,” said Lawlor, as he saw the server approaching, “is you eat breakfast. Then, assuming you’re in, we’re going to go over everything you know about Pedersen and develop a plan.”
There was no question in Harvath’s mind. Based on their intel, he was being hunted. He wasn’t wired to sit and wait this sort of thing out; to play defense instead of offense. “I’m in,” he stated. “All in.”
It sounded nice to think that he was doing it for his teammates, or for The Carlton Group, or the Old Man’s legacy, or even for the country. But deep down, down near that flickering flame of his humanity, he knew his reasons weren’t nearly so noble. It was because the rage was still there.
And as the realization swept over him, he was reminded of a quote about the dangers of hunting monsters. If you weren’t careful, Nietzsche had warned, you became what you hunted. “When you gaze long into the abyss,” he had said, “the abyss gazes also into you.”
But no sooner had that quote entered his mind than it was expelled by another, one sent from deep down near his anger: “Fate whispers to the warrior, ‘You cannot withstand the storm.’ The warrior whispers back, ‘I am the storm.’ ”
As the server set down his meal, Harvath forced himself to concentrate and begin forging a mental path toward the person who had betrayed Carl Pedersen.
CHAPTER 11
GRANVILLE
NORMANDY REGION, FRANCE
Long before Paul Aubertin had killed his first police officer, he had been a
lover of all things French.
Born Michael Collins McElhone to a Catholic family in West Belfast, he was a teenager during the ongoing, partisan “Troubles” of Northern Ireland in the 1990s. France, with its “Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” couldn’t have seemed farther away.
With a passion for its history, its language, its culture, its politics, and its gastronomy, the young Francophile had hoped to study in Montpellier, Lyon, or maybe even Paris one day.
It was a lofty goal for a working-class boy whose parents were constantly late on their rent and struggled to put food on the table.
Nevertheless, he had clung tightly to his dream. Until, one day, his entire life had been shattered.
His father, a deliveryman who supported a unified and independent Ireland, had been beaten to death by members of a paramilitary group that preyed on civilians called the Loyalist Volunteer Force, or LVF for short.
Despite their absolutely heinous actions, they had been able to evade anything resembling accountability or prosecution. So emboldened were they by their apparent untouchable status, that they even developed their own Hitler Youth–style offshoot called the Young Loyalist Volunteers.
He was sixteen and had thought about joining, working his way up the organization from inside, and killing all those responsible. He had seen similar things done in the movies and for a moment felt it was a solid plan.
But then, he had applied a little more brainpower. The LVF was based only a half hour away in Portadown. They would have access to any number of people in Belfast who could check his background. There was no way he could pretend to be a motivated Protestant, looking to join the fight. And the minute they realized he was the son of a man the LVF had murdered, it would be all over for him. He couldn’t do that to his mother. He would have to be more covert.
With his father gone, so too was his family’s income. He had no choice but to drop out of school and work full-time to make up for the shortfall and help take care of his family.
But while he had no choice but to work, he did have a choice where to work. His maternal uncle was whispered to be a member of the Irish Republican Army and worked in the construction industry, which hired lots of workers off the books in order to skirt taxes, trade unions, and National Insurance contributions. That’s who he went to see. And that’s where he found employment.
