by Brad Thor
The pair worked several grueling cases before the White House finally decided Harvath was ready for the big leagues of presidential protection.
Harvath’s new position kept him very busy, and gradually, the two friends fell out of touch. Harvath had felt guilty about it. Had he known that Rayburn had purposely let the friendship lapse because he had no further use for the former SEAL, he probably would have felt a lot different. It wasn’t until Rayburn was forced back onto Harvath’s radar screen that the young Secret Service agent realized he’d been taken.
Rayburn headed a team of Secret Service agents that had been assigned to complement a State Department security detail protecting a high-level foreign dignitary visiting the United States. Two days into the visit, the dignitary was assassinated.
Because of his expertise in counterterrorism, Harvath was asked to consult in the investigation. The deeper he dug, the more his gut told him the killer, or killers, had somehow received help from the inside. As much as he hated to go in that direction, he had no choice but to conduct a thorough examination of the security detail.
As Harvath connected the dots, a picture began to emerge—and it wasn’t flattering. His hunch had been right. Someone had been bought. The trail eventually led to the door of one of Rayburn’s men, but there had still been something about all of it that didn’t feel right, so Harvath kept digging, quietly.
Harvath’s involvement in the investigation was something Rayburn had never planned on. The older agent had picked a fall guy and had planted the evidence implicating him so deep that by the time the investigators found it they would be not only exhausted but completely convinced they had their man. Harvath, though, was no stranger to being wrongfully accused of a crime he didn’t commit, and had worked overtime to help clear the agent he sensed wasn’t guilty. Nailing Rayburn as the real bad guy was another story entirely.
When it came down to it, most of the evidence against Rayburn, as well as how Harvath had uncovered it, wasn’t admissible in court. There was, though, enough to get him booted from the Secret Service and to make sure that he never worked in law enforcement again. Fueled by the anger he felt over Rayburn’s betrayal, Harvath continued to work outside official channels and eventually tracked down a numbered account in the Caymans that Rayburn had used for his blood money. Working through an “unofficial” contact, Harvath had the funds discreetly transferred to a compensation fund established for the deceased dignitary’s family.
Draining the account provided only a small measure of satisfaction. As far as Harvath was concerned, the man should have stood trial for murder. After the investigation had been officially closed, Rayburn disappeared. But Harvath had never forgotten him. He figured the U.S. government hadn’t either. Somewhere within the intelligence community, somebody might still be keeping an eye on him, but as long as Senator Carmichael was looking to put Harvath’s head on a stake, Gary Lawlor had made it clear that he didn’t want him reaching out to any of his contacts within the community, including Lawlor himself. Gary had established a roundabout way for Harvath to get in touch with him, but only if he absolutely had to. For the time being, Harvath was operating without a net, and given the current situation back in Washington, if he fell, no one was going to step forward and identify his remains.
That left Harvath with only one option—he would have to get creative, and the first thing he would have to get creative with was a way to get his hands on the specific intelligence he needed.
With a ban in effect on reaching out to any of his official intelligence contacts, he realized he would have to go outside his normal circle. It took him a moment, but he soon came up with somebody who could help him. The only question was, would Nick Kampos be in the mood to do him such a major favor?
SIXTEEN
A fter parting with Kalachka, Harvath had needed only one phone call to the Cyprus office of DEA agent Nick Kampos to get his answer. When his cab dropped him later that night at an outdoor taverna near the port of Kyrenia, Kampos was already sitting at a table by the water.
“Classy,” said Harvath as he pulled out the plastic chair opposite the man and sat down. The squat wooden table was covered with a redand-white-checkered tablecloth, complete with paper napkins, dirty flatware, and a chipped hurricane lamp. “If I didn’t know you better, Nick, I’d swear you were just trying to impress me.”
“Are you kidding me?” said the DEA agent as he swept his arm toward the harbor and its brightly colored fishing boats. “Look at this view.”
“It’s terrific,” replied Harvath as he leaned over and shoved a stack of napkins under one of his chair legs to even it out.
“If I really cared about impressing you, we would have eaten at one of the fancy joints up the road. It would have cost twice as much, but the food wouldn’t have been half as good.”
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” said Harvath as a waiter arrived with an ice bucket and a bottle of white wine.
“I took the liberty of ordering us something to drink.”
“I can see that.”
“You’re not going to give me any macho bullshit about only being a beer drinker, are you?” asked Kampos.
Harvath laughed and shook his head. It was funny to hear Nick pimping him about being macho. The man was a six-foot-four solid wall of muscle with gray hair, a thick mustache, and a craggy face weathered with a permanent tan from a lifetime spent out-of-doors. Divorced, with two daughters in college back in the States, Kampos liked to joke that it was the women in his life who had grayed his hair, but Harvath knew better. Nick and his ex were still on good terms, and he adored his daughters more than anything else in the world. He put up a pretty tough front, but underneath it all, the guy was a complete teddy bear.
“Good,” replied the DEA agent as he politely waved the waiter away and poured full glasses for both of them. “Local stuff. A little rough at first, but you get used to it. Cheers.”
Harvath regretted not chickening out and ordering a beer the minute the wine hit his taste buds. “Smooth, “He said between coughing fits.
“You’re getting weak, sister. Too much time in DC and not enough in the field.”
“I’m never out of the field, it seems,” replied Harvath as he took another swig and this time managed to get it down without registering how bad it tasted.
“There you go. That’s the Scot Harvath I know and love,” said Kampos with a wide grin. “After this, we’ll move you onto the hard stuff.”
“Bring it on,” Harvath stated with a smile.
Kampos discreetly belted out the army yell, “Hooyah!” and took another long swallow of local vintage.
Scot couldn’t help liking the guy. In fact, when he thought about it, the DEA was one of the only agencies he’d ever worked with where he’d actually liked every single person he’d come in contact with. Though they shared many of the same facilities as the FBI training academy at Quantico, the two cultures couldn’t have been more different. While the FBI focused on hiring lawyers and accountants, most DEA agents were ex-cops, or ex-military like Kampos. What’s more, they were the best close-range shooters in the business. In fact, the DEA was so good at close-quarters battle, or CQB as it was more commonly known, that they trained all of the president’s Marine One helicopter flight crews.
When Harvath transferred from the SEALs to White House Secret Service operations, he’d been so impressed with the HMX-1 Nighthawks’ level of CQB proficiency that he had asked if he could train with them in his off time. Shooting, after all, was a perishable skill, and any law enforcement officer who carried a gun was always encouraged to log as much range time as he could—especially in his off time. The bottom line was that the more you fired your weapon, the better shooter you became, and that was certainly true in Harvath’s case, especially while Nick Kampos was his instructor.
Harvath had learned a lot about the DEA, both on and off the range. What struck him the most was their dedication not just to their jobs but to
each other. One of the guys told him a story about how they had turned a founder member of one of Colombia’s largest drug cartels and while they had him in a hotel awaiting a trial he was set to testify at, he regaled his two DEA protective agents with stories of what his immense wealth had been able to buy—local cops, state cops, judges, politicians, but never a single DEA agent.
Though they had boots on the ground in fifty-eight countries around the world, including those of Kampos, who had put in for the Cyprus position just before Harvath left the White House, for some reason, the powers that be in Washington had never invited the Drug Enforcement Administration to sit at the big kids’ table when it came to sharing intelligence. This oddity had its pros and its cons, but for the most part, the DEA agents Harvath knew were okay with it. It meant they weren’t bound by a lot of the same rules, requirements, and restrictions as other federal agencies. It also meant, at least for right now, that Harvath had someone he could reach out to for help and be one hundred percent certain that it wouldn’t get back to Senator Helen Remington Carmichael.
“If you don’t mind my saying so,” said Kampos as he put a little float atop each of their glasses, “you look like shit.”
“Thanks a lot,” replied Harvath.
“If the job’s gotten too much for you, maybe you ought to think about getting out.”
“What are you, a career counselor now?”
“Nope. I’m just a Wal-Mart greeter currently employed by the DEA.”
“Get serious,” said Harvath.
“I am being serious. If things ever get to the point where I don’t want to do the job anymore, I’m going to be the best damn greeter Wal-Mart has ever seen. But you didn’t come all this way to talk about my employment prospects. Why don’t we talk about why you’re really here.”
“I’m visiting an old friend.”
“Let me guess,” said Kampos. “A big fat guy who walks with a very pronounced limp.”
“Hey, go easy on the limp,” responded Harvath. “That’s some of my best work.”
“What could you possibly want with him?”
Harvath tore off a piece of bread and dragged it through one of the dips the waiter had brought out. “He’s got some info related to a case I’m working on.”
“The case you can’t talk to me about.”
“Right.”
“The one where you have to ask me to do your scut work for you because apparently you can’t go to anyone in DC.”
“Right again.”
Kampos looked at his old friend and said, “Scot, what are you into?”
“Nothing illegal, I can promise you that.”
“Can you? I haven’t talked to you in at least a year, and all of a sudden you pop up out of nowhere, balls-to-the-wall cloak and dagger, and ask me to run names for you on the QT because you’re persona non grata back home? What would you think if you were in my shoes?”
“I’d think I must be pretty special for Scot Harvath to come to me for help.”
“Bullshit. You’d have just as many questions, if not more than I do,” replied Kampos. “What the hell is going on? And don’t give me any I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you secret agent crap either. The reason the DEA is able to work in so many countries around the world is because we don’t do any spy shit. We only work in the drug world.”
“I know, and I’m not asking you to do any spy stuff.”
“You asked me to compile two dossiers for you. That’s a pretty big favor. Granted it wasn’t like sneaking microfilm across the border, but we’re getting into semantics here. Why did you come to me instead of going to somebody at your own agency?”
Harvath had a tough decision to make. Sure, Kampos liked him, but the man probably liked his career and his pension a hell of a lot more. Kampos wasn’t about to stick his neck out for Harvath without having a good reason. If Harvath was asking the man to trust him, he was going to have to do the same thing in return. His gut told him the DEA agent could keep his secret, and Harvath always went with his gut. “Have you seen the al-Jazeera footage they’ve been running from Baghdad?”
“Where that GI is beating the camel humps off that poor fruit stall vendor?”
“There was nothing poor about him, but yeah, that’s the footage I’m talking about,” said Harvath.
“What a fucking mess. You know they’re going to fry that GI once they figure out who he is.”
“Right after they use a very big axe to chop off his wee-wee.”
“Hold on a sec,” said Kampos. “Are you telling me that—”
Harvath put on the best grin he could muster considering the subject matter and said, “Yup. Yours truly.”
“Turn around.”
“What do you mean, turn around?”
“I’ve seen that video about a thousand times already. That GI had one badly shaped head. I want to see the back of your head to see if it matches up.”
“Fuck you,” replied Harvath.
Kampos checked him out from across the table. “I can tell from here. It’s you. Jesus, what a head. How many times did your momma drop you on it?”
“Fuck you,” repeated Harvath.
“What’d she do? Use Crisco instead of baby lotion?” said Kampos as he pretended to have a baby that kept shooting out of his arms. “Whoops, there he goes again.”
Harvath held up his middle finger and went back to his food.
“Only you couldn’t have waited until the camera was off.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t help myself. Very funny, Nick.”
Kampos tried to put on a straight face. “No, you’re right. This is serious. Just let me ask you one thing.”
“What?”
“You were cussing that guy out pretty good while you were zip-tying him, right?”
“So?”
“So, technically I think that counts as a speaking role. You’ve arrived, son. You must be eligible for a Screen Actors Guild card now.”
“And I’m the wiseass. Listen, I told you this because I thought I could trust you to keep quiet about it. It’s for your ears only.”
“And I promise you it will go no further,” replied Kampos, who took a moment before continuing. “I’m not the only one who knows you’re the guy in that footage, am I?
“No, you’re not, and that’s why I’m having trouble at the office.”
“Is it the president?”
“No. It’s somebody who’s trying to get to him by burning me.”
“And they’re going to do it by going public with your identity?”
“I sure as hell hope not, but don’t be surprised if I end up joining you as a Wal-Mart greeter.”
“Junior greeter,” said Kampos. “I don’t share top billing with anybody, not even big TV stars like you.”
“Fine, junior greeter,” replied Harvath. “Now, are you going to help me out or not?”
Kampos reached down into the briefcase next to his chair, removed a thin manila envelope, and slid it across the table to his colleague. “That’s the best I could do on such short notice.”
Harvath removed the documents from the envelope as Kampos continued to speak. “After that Rayburn character got the boot from the Secret Service, the trail on him goes so cold it’s sub-Arctic. It’s like he just vanished. No tax returns, no passport renewal, no credit card activity, no hits on his social security number—nothing.”
“What about the other name I gave you? The one for the woman.”
“That one I had a little more luck with. Jillian Alcott. Age twenty-seven. Born in Cornwall, England. Attended Cambridge University and graduated with her undergraduate degree in biology and organic chemistry. Went on to attend the University of Durham, where she secured a graduate degree in molecular biology, followed by a PhD in paleopathology.”
“What the hell is paleopathology?” asked Harvath.
“Beats me,” replied Kampos, “but whatever it is, it apparently qualifies her for her current position, which is teaching c
hemistry at a very exclusive private high school in London called Abbey College. I never did understand the Brits. They call high-school college and college university. Anyway, it’s all there in the file. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can dig up anything else on Rayburn for you.”
“Thanks, Nick. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t appreciate it. Just get whatever’s screwed up straight and come out on the right side of it.”
Harvath’s attention drifted toward the water, and Kampos seemed to be able to read his mind. “You’re going to London, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Harvath.
“Well, if you need anything else, let me know.”
“Actually, there is,” said Harvath as he opened his wallet and counted several bills onto the table to pay for their dinner. “I need a ride to the airport and a gun.”
SEVENTEEN
N IKOS T AVERNA
P LAKA D ISTRICT
A THENS
K halid Alomari tried to keep his anger under control as he flipped his cell phone closed and tossed it onto the wooden table in front of him. As the noise of motorbikes whizzing past mingled with the sounds of shopkeepers hawking their wares to the tourists who crowded the dusty sidewalks, Alomari wondered once again why none of his contacts was producing. Secrets didn’t keep long in a country like Bangladesh, but for some reason this one was eluding him. As he tried to piece together what had happened, he thought seriously about having one or two of his lowlife associates there killed to help motivate the others.
None of it made any sense. Men like Emir Tokay didn’t simply vanish. They didn’t have the aptitude. Tokay was a scientist, after all, not a trained intelligence operative. There had to be a way to find him, thought Alomari. The assassin had gotten to all the other scientists on the list and didn’t like coming up one short. His situation was made even more difficult by the fact that there was very little time left.
