Blowback

by Brad Thor

  The police came with Jillian’s aunt. When they found her in the barn, her aunt suddenly began to cry. She blamed the weather, the terrible weather. She was crying so hard that one of the policemen had to tell Jillian himself that her mother and father wouldn’t be coming home. They had died in a car accident on the way back from selling their sheep. They had fetched a good price early and were trying to beat the storm back to the farm, but they had seriously misjudged it.

  One horrible storm had managed to take away the three most important people in Jillian’s life. It was no wonder that rough weather still made her feel so uncomfortable. In fact, storms had grown to become a metaphor for Jillian, representing the uncertainty and cruelty that could be disproportionately visited on one person’s life no matter how little that person had done to deserve it. It was, in part, why she had surrendered herself to a life of science. Science was a world of constants—rules and processes, which could always be counted on. The part she cared not to think about was that science was also a world that was to a significant degree cold, unfeeling, and exceedingly inhuman.

  Of course there were people passionate about their pursuits, but very rarely were they passionate about other human beings. In the academic world of “publish or perish,” very few put anything above their love of science. It was indeed a cold place, incredibly enriching for the mind but not so enriching for the soul.

  As a remarkably attractive woman, Jillian Alcott was a rarity in the academic world and constantly found herself treated as an object to be possessed rather than as a woman deserving of love. Throughout her education, both her fellow students and many of her professors had desired her simply for her stunning outward appearance. None of them had the courage to look beyond her all too often cold demeanor to see the person she really was. Had anyone taken the time to really study her, to study her with even half the vigor with which they pursued their vaunted scientific investigations, they might have seen a woman who had not yet been able to make it past those two horrific storm-plagued days in Cornwall when she was seven years old, a woman who, though braver than most on the outside, was still, on the inside, incredibly frightened. Life, her career, and even the prospect of learning to love someone again only to have them ripped from her, all terrified Jillian Alcott.

  The worse the storm, the worse her feelings of impending doom, and today was no different. On days like this, her only comfort came from indulging herself. And though it sounded terribly cliché, even to her, the one thing that made her feel better was shopping. And her favorite place to shop was the Harvey Nichols department store in Knightsbridge.

  As she exited the Tube station and raced through the rain across Sloane Street, Alcott decided that with nothing but the day’s mail awaiting her at home, she’d make an evening of it at her beloved Harvey Nics. It was either that or the television at home, and as much of a social cripple as she was, Alcott knew it was better for her to be out among the living and breathing.

  Alcott decided to head up to the store’s Fifth Floor Café for something to eat before she began her shopping. Finding a small table for two, she placed her belongings on the opposite chair and sat down. The rain pounded against the glass roof and ran down the windows at the front of the café in white foamy sheets that made it appear as if she was sitting behind a waterfall. As a streak of lightning ripped through the sky, followed by a booming peal of thunder, Alcott decided she wanted a glass of wine.

  Forty-five minutes later, the storm was still raging as Jillian paid for her meal. Despite the two glasses of Pinot Gris she had consumed, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something bad out there with her name on it. Blaming her unease on the storm, she got up from her table and decided that it was time to do a little shopping.

  Taking the escalators to the third floor to browse through the lingerie section, she felt a chill along the back of her long, slender neck. She was even more frightened than before and didn’t know why.

  As she moved through the lingerie department, her feelings of impending doom came to a crescendo and finally made sense as a powerfully built man grabbed her urgently by the arm and said, ”Come with me if you want to live.”

  TWENTY

  W hat are you doing?” demanded Alcott as she was muscled toward the back of the department.

  “Saving your life,” replied Scot Harvath as he kept her moving toward one of the green emergency exit signs.

  Alcott tried to twist out of his grasp. “You’re hurting me. Let me go.”

  “Someone has been following you since you left the Abbey College.”

  She had wanted to blame her unease on the storm, but on a more primal level Jillian had sensed all afternoon that something wasn’t right. It was as if she had felt someone’s eyes on her. But the only way this man could have known she was being followed was if he had been following her as well. “Who are you?”

  “That’s not important right now,” said Harvath as he increased their pace.

  “If you don’t stop this, I’m going to scream. Do you hear me?”

  “You scream and we’re both dead.”

  Alcott was about to show him she was serious when she felt something hard pressed into her back. Without even seeing it, she instinctively knew what it was—a gun. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Over your shoulder, by the elevator.”

  Alcott looked. “What about it?”

  “The tall man standing next to it. Do you see him? Dark hair. Dark skin.”

  “Yes, why?”

  “He’s been sent here to kill you,” responded Harvath as he turned Jillian back around and continued to maneuver her toward the door marked Emergency Exit.

  Alcott was just about to tell this man one last time that he was insane and to unhand her when she heard gunshots and all of the mannequins around them began exploding. “Get down,” yelled her captor, knocking her to the ground as they were showered with pieces of flesh-colored fiberglass.

  As Alcott started to scream, Harvath counted to three and rolled off her, coming up on one knee with the compact eleven-shot,. 40-caliber Beretta Mini Cougar Type D pistol that had been waiting for him when he arrived in London. As good an agent, and a friend, as Nick Kampos was, arranging weapons for Harvath in foreign countries was something even he couldn’t do. For that, Harvath reluctantly had to call on Ozan Kalachka and ask him for a favor. A favor the man was only too happy and able to arrange.

  Catching sight of their assailant, Harvath began firing.

  The unsilenced weapon bucked in his hand as Harvath let loose with a deafening three-round volley. The store was in complete pandemonium, with shoppers screaming and running for their lives. Keeping low while he expertly weaved his way through the racks of clothing and display stands, the attacker was less than twenty yards away and closing fast. Harvath desperately wanted to get off another round of shots, but there were too many people in his way.

  “We’ve got to get out of here now, “He said as he maneuvered back over to Alcott.

  Jillian wanted to respond; she wanted to say something, but the words caught in her throat. Her heart was thudding against her chest so hard she thought for certain it would burst.

  “Do you see that exit sign back there?” asked Harvath as he helped her up into a crouch.

  Alcott had trouble responding, and Harvath realized that she must be in shock. Grabbing her chin, he turned her head in the right direction and asked her again if she saw the sign.

  This time, Jillian nodded.

  “Good. When I say go, I want you to run as fast as you can to that door. I’m going to be right behind you and—”

  “Who are you?” she managed.

  “That’s not important,” replied Harvath. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now, when I say go, we’re going to make a run for that emergency exit door. Do you understand?”

  Jillian nodded her head.

  “Okay, get ready. One, two, three, go!” yelled Harvath as he pushed Alcott forward and laid down a wide
swath of cover fire behind them, careful to avoid hitting any of the fleeing shoppers. When they arrived at the emergency exit door, Harvath kicked it open and pulled Jillian in behind him. They ran down a narrow service corridor until they found the emergency stairwell and then began bounding down the stairs two at a time. Alcott’s legs seemed to be moving entirely of their own accord, her will tied to the sheer force of the man in front of her.

  Instead of descending all the way to the ground floor and out some side door, as she assumed they would, they instead exited the fire stairs on the first floor and cut across the length of the store to the other side. Finding another staircase, Harvath led the way down to the ground floor, where he spirited Alcott through the perfume section and straight out the front door with the rest of the panicked shoppers.

  Harvath quickly scanned the street through the torrential downpour and saw that not only were all of the buses packed, but so were the taxis. The Tube was an option, but they couldn’t get on it here. Not at Knightsbridge. It was only a matter of time before Khalid Alomari realized he’d been tricked and doubled back to look for them. They had to get out of the area as quickly as possible.

  Tightening his grip around Alcott’s arm, Harvath steered her away from the department store and down the sidewalk. Without her trusty Burberry umbrella, which she had lost somewhere in the lingerie department along with her briefcase, Alcott had nothing to keep her dry. Growing colder, wetter, and more scared by the moment, she tried to think of something to say—something that would cut through all of this insanity. “Please, let me go.”

  Harvath wasn’t listening. He was only concerned with putting as much distance between them and Alomari as possible, and right now that meant they had to keep moving forward—together.

  Harvath was in no condition to tackle the highly skilled assassin. He was running on empty, summoning up reserves of energy and recycled adrenaline he knew he was going to pay dearly for in the very near future. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week, but right now, sleep was not an option. Knowing that a very deadly disease could be unleashed upon America at any time was all the inspiration Harvath needed to increase his pace.

  As they got closer to the South Kensington Tube station, Harvath realized he still had no idea where they were going. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. They couldn’t aimlessly wander London all night. They needed an end point, a destination. “We need to find a place where we can get out of the rain, “He said more for his own benefit than hers. “A place where we can talk. Quietly.”

  “How about a police station?” replied Alcott. “They’re quiet enough, and we’ll both be safe there.”

  “We can’t go to the police.”

  “We can’t?” she mustered up the courage to say. “Or you can’t?”

  “It’s the same thing now,” stated Harvath. “We’re in this together. “Through the rain, he could make out a pub sign about half a block down. After glancing over his shoulder he said, ”There’s a pub up ahead. We can talk there. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” said Alcott. “I don’t even know who you are. The only place I want to go is to the police.”

  Harvath was anxious to get off the street and out of the rain. Any minute now, the area would be crawling with police. He could already hear the sirens, and even though he’d been careful to avoid showing his face to the department store’s security cameras, there was no telling if any eyewitnesses had gotten a good look at him.

  Harvath needed time to think, and like it or not, for at least the near future, he and Alcott were going to be joined at the hip.

  He thought about using the gun and telling her she had no choice, but playing hardball was only going to make traveling with her more difficult. He needed her to trust him. “If you don’t come inside with me, not only will you be putting your life in further jeopardy, but Emir Tokay’s as well.”

  The look on the woman’s face told him that he’d struck the right chord. The resistance drained from her body, and Harvath was able to quickly steer her off the street and into the dimly lit pub.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I t was called The Bunch of Grapes and turned out to be one of London’s oldest pubs. As Harvath led Alcott to a quiet table in the back, he noticed a sign that said it had been in existence since 1777. The rich, wood-paneled interior was steeped in London history and was exactly what one would expect to find in a traditional English public house, especially one that had been around for more than two hundred years.

  After hanging their soaking wet coats near the door, Harvath ordered two Irish coffees from the bar and brought them back over to their table.

  Jillian reached for her drink and in the most confident voice she could summon said, “I’m giving you five minutes to tell me who you are and what this is all about. Why would somebody want to kill me?”

  Harvath was famished. He opened the package of salt and vinegar chips he had bought at the bar, took a couple of bites, and then washed them down with a mouthful of hot Irish coffee before responding. “My name is Scot Harvath, and I work for the American government. The man from the department store who tried to kill you is named Khalid Sheik Alomari. He’s an al-Qaeda assassin.”

  “An al-Qaeda assassin is after me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you just let him follow me all the way to Harvey Nichols?”

  “I wasn’t able to get a good look at him until just before everything happened.”

  “This is preposterous. Why would an al-Qaeda assassin be after me?”

  “Because of your relationship with Emir Tokay.”

  “My relationship? But Emir and I are just friends,” responded Jillian. “We went to university together. Why would someone, much less al-Qaeda, want to kill me over that?”

  Most people would have missed it, but Harvath noticed a subtle shift in her facial muscles that signaled she was not being completely truthful. It was called a microexpression, and through their extensive training, U.S. Secret Service agents were the only human beings consistently capable of detecting them. It was a skill Harvath had worked tirelessly to keep sharp, and it was precisely at moments like this that he was glad he had. “There’s more to this than that,” replied Harvath, “and you know it. Emir was working on a very serious project that he contacted you about for help.”

  “I don’t know anything about any project Emir was working on.”

  There it was again, the tell. “Dr. Alcott, everybody on that project is dead now. Everybody except for Emir, and if you don’t want the same thing to happen to him, I suggest you cooperate.”

  Jillian was silent as she decided what, if anything, she should divulge. This man knew that she had been followed since leaving Abbey College because he had been following her too. In her opinion, that made him just as suspect. Just because he managed to get to her first didn’t automatically make him one of the good guys. What proof did she have that he was telling her the truth? Emir had warned her to be extremely careful about whom she spoke to about anything regarding his work.

  Jillian quickly made up her mind that before she would answer any of Harvath’s questions, she had a few more of her own she wanted answered. “If you work for the American government, why can’t we go to the police?”

  “It’s tricky, “He replied.

  “I can only imagine,” said Jillian, her courage bolstered by the Irish coffee and the presence of other people at the front of the somewhat crowded pub. “You are quickly running out of time to explain it to me.”

  Harvath took a moment to compose himself as he chose his next words very carefully. “The man who shot at you at the department store—”

  “Allegedly,” replied Jillian.

  “What do you mean, allegedly?” said Harvath. “What do you think those mannequins were doing? Bursting with pride because they found work in the lingerie department?”

  Jillian looked Harvath square in the face and said, “How do I know he wasn’t shooting
at you and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  Harvath couldn’t believe what a state of denial this woman was in. “Trust me. Khalid Alomari came to London to kill you.”

  “Really?” she replied. “Then what was he waiting for?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said he’d been following me since I left the school. Why? Why follow me all the way to Harvey Nichols, then wait around while I was in the café? Why not kill me outside the school or even on the Tube? Why draw it out?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Harvath. “The only thing I can think of is that he must have wanted something from you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Information, probably. Like how much you knew about Emir’s work and who else he might have been talking to.”

  “Which are exactly the same things I assume you want,” she said as she looked at Harvath. “But that still doesn’t explain why he waited.”

  “Maybe he planned on following you home. Do you live alone?”

  “I’m not going to answer that.”

  Harvath read her face and said, “You live alone, I can tell, but that doesn’t matter. Alomari is ruthless. He would have killed anyone who stood in his way of getting the information he wanted.”

  “But I don’t have any information.”

  Harvath could tell she was lying again, but he let it go. “When he saw me at the department store, he probably realized he wasn’t going to be able to get to you, and so he figured if he couldn’t, then no one would.”

  “How romantic,” replied Jillian. “How do you know so much about this Alomari person?”

  “Until recently, it was my job to hunt him down and bring him in.”

  “So how come he’s still on the loose?”