Blowback

by Brad Thor

  “Of course not.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because,” replied Harvath, “I know who I was aiming at.”

  “Khalid Alomari.”

  “Exactly.”

  “This is too much,” replied Jillian. “We have to go to the police. Now.”

  “I already told you. I can’t go to the police, and neither can you. There’s no time.”

  “If Alomari was in that store, then they’ll have footage of him too.”

  “He’s a professional. If they do, they won’t have much.”

  “But it’s something, a start. They could help us look for him.”

  “At this point, Khalid Alomari is one of the last things I’m concerned about. I need to get to the bottom of how this illness works and how and where al-Qaeda intends to use it. I can’t do that, though, without your help. I need to know more about what Emir was involved with.”

  Jillian knew she had to do something. She might be Emir’s only hope. Finally, she said, “I’m not the one you need to talk to.”

  “Of course you are. You’re the person Emir was speaking with outside the institute.”

  “I’m not exactly the only one.”

  Harvath looked at her. “If there’s anyone else you think he might have spoken to, you need to tell me. They could be in a lot of danger right now as well.”

  “I doubt it,” said Jillian. “There’s no trail connecting them. Emir didn’t even know I was talking to anyone else about his work.”

  “You? Who were you talking with?”

  Jillian paused for a moment. “Two people who know a lot more about this stuff than I do.”

  “Other paleopathologists?”

  “They were professors of mine at university,” she replied. “Vanessa and Alan Whitcomb.”

  “Where can I find them?” asked Harvath.

  “About five hours north of here in Durham. Do you have a car?”

  Harvath shook his head.

  “Then it looks like we may be sticking together for a little while longer.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  T HE W HITE H OUSE

  W ASHINGTON , DC

  S AME D AY

  Y ou want me to what?” said Senator Carmichael as she accepted the crystal highball glass from Charles Anderson and set it on the table in front of her.

  “Come on, Helen,” replied the president’s chief of staff. “You didn’t think I asked you over here so we could have a nice bipartisan bourbon and chat about the future of American democracy.”

  “No, but I was expecting a little cordiality.”

  “Well, you picked a bad week,” said Anderson as he sat down on the couch across from her. “We’re all out of cordiality.”

  “You know what, Chuck? You’ve changed.”

  “No, Helen, you have. You’re so obsessed with clinching the vice presidency that you’ll do anything to make it happen.”

  “As any member of my party would,” countered Carmichael.

  Anderson took a sip of his bourbon and said, “No. We’re not talking about party politics here, Helen, and you know it. We’re talking about you and your rabid desire to ultimately become president.”

  “Me? What about you? Are you going to sit there and tell me that your boy’s desire is any less than mine?”

  “First of all, we refer to him as the president of the United States in this office—”

  “Don’t scold me, Chuck—”

  “And secondly,” replied the chief of staff, plowing right ahead, “you damn well know the arm-twisting we’ve had to do to get him to run again.”

  “If he doesn’t want to run,” said the senator as she lifted her drink, “then why is he?”

  “Because the country needs him, and more importantly, it wants him.”

  “This country doesn’t know what it wants.”

  “Really? Look at any poll out there, Helen, and you’ll see it’s clear. America wants Jack Rutledge to stay for another term, and that’s what it’s going to get—four more years.”

  “Not if the Democratic Party has got anything to say about it.”

  Anderson leaned forward. “The Democratic Party already knows they’re beat. I had the chairman of the DNC in this office this morning, sitting right where you are, and he told me the very same thing.”

  Carmichael was flabbergasted. “Russell Mercer never would have admitted that.”

  “I’ll tell you, Helen, Russ is a smart guy. There are a lot of times I wish he were on our side. But with the president’s numbers the way they are, nothing short of a full-blown scandal in this administration is going to close the gap enough to give your party a shot at the Oval Office.”

  “Well,” said the senator, a smug look on her face as she sat back and raised her bourbon to her lips, “you’d better mind the gap.”

  “We’re minding it all right, but I want to tell you what else Russ Mercer said while he was here.”

  “More nonsense, I’m sure, but go ahead. I’m all ears.”

  “It’s no secret that the Democratic presidential nomination is going to go to Governor Bob Farnsworth of Minnesota. All things considered, I think it’s a pretty good choice. He’s got a good voting record, he’s a veteran, and to tell you the truth, in a nose-to-nose election race with him, I’d probably lose more than a little sleep at night, but this isn’t a nose-to-nose race.”

  “What’s this have to do with what other drivel Mercer had to say?”

  “They’re not going to put you on the ticket, Helen. Not this time.”

  “What do you mean, they’re not going to put me on the ticket? How the hell would you know?”

  “I know, because Russ told me so. You may be one of the party’s rising stars, but you don’t have the juice to make an election like this happen.”

  “Well, I’m just going to have to—”

  Anderson cut her off. “Russ also told me that you are on very shaky ground as far as the DNC is concerned. If you don’t watch your step, you might turn around and find that the party isn’t there for you anymore.”

  He was playing her. He had to be. The self-righteous son of a bitch was trying to fluster her. Well, he had another think coming. She was a United States senator, and she did not fluster, not that easily. “I’m apparently going to have to have a chat with our beloved DNC chairman and get a few things straightened out with him,” said Carmichael.

  “Helen, let’s cut the crap. You saw an opening, probably smelled what you thought was a little blood in the water, and took it upon yourself to get these hearings launched.”

  “So what if I did?”

  “If you did, and the hearings blow up in your face, nobody from your party is going to be there to help you pick your teeth up off the ground.”

  “Chuck, let’s be clear here. Are you threatening me?”

  “No. No threats, Senator. Just friendly advice.”

  “From the incumbent Republican president’s chief of staff. You’ll pardon me if I take your advice with more than a grain of salt.”

  “Take it with two grains if you like, but these hearings could end up ruining your political career.”

  “Or yours,” replied Carmichael with a grin.

  Anderson ignored her and pressed forward. “Have you even polled this, Helen?”

  “What? The hearings? I don’t have to. People are outraged. The American people are deeply disturbed by what they have seen, and they want justice to be done.”

  “No they don’t, and they’re not outraged. This is exactly why you should have run this by your party leadership before you kicked this whole thing off. The Abu Ghraib prison photos outraged people. One of our servicemen kicking the crap out of a suspected terrorist is something entirely different.”

  “Did you poll it?” asked Carmichael.

  Anderson was silent.

  “Jesus, you did. Didn’t you? What kind of numbers did you get?”

  “I’m not going to do your homework for you, Helen. If you w
ant to float a poll, you go right ahead and see what you get back. But I will tell you this. Unless you’re polling in Ramallah, Tehran, or downtown Baghdad, you’re not going to find an overwhelming amount of support for your hearings. Nobody wants this soldier dragged out in front of the media and nailed to a cross, and they’ll want it even less when we release our side of the story.”

  “And what exactly is your side of the story?”

  “Press with the hearings and you’ll find out.”

  “Now that sounds like a threat.”

  “You know what, Helen? I’m tired of this,” said the chief of staff as he stood from the couch and walked back over behind his desk. “You take it however you want to, but I’m warning you—you’re biting off more than you can chew.”

  “Why? Because Scot Harvath, the man seen beating that defenseless Iraqi, is some kind of American hero for all of the things he’s done? Do you think you’ll be able to wrap him in the flag and the public will just give him a pass? How about the president? Do you think he can parade out that same trite line that he’s got a tough job to do and sometimes that job involves doing things others might not have the stomach for in order to keep this country safe? If you think that crap is going to work, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “What I think is that you’ve got no idea what it takes to run this country, Senator.”

  “I know it doesn’t take things like the Apex Project,” replied Carmichael, pausing for Anderson’s reaction to her bombshell.

  The chief of staff was ready for her, though. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the president’s own special black ops team that funds its budget with monies approved by Congress for a wide variety of fiscal and social programs. Since you’re such an expert, Chuck, how do you think Americans would feel if they knew what the president was really up to? Running his own private assassination teams out of the White House? How do you think that would poll?”

  “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, and I’d tell your committee the exact same thing under oath.”

  “Good,” replied Carmichael as she threw two subpoenas down on his desk—one bearing his name and another with the president’s. “I’ll look forward to it. Consider yourselves served.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  D URHAM , E NGLAND

  T he Whitcombs lived in a small Victorian cottage just off the University of Durham’s main campus. The drive had taken more than six hours, and though Harvath was tempted to try to steal a little sleep along the way, he couldn’t risk it. They both needed to keep their eyes out for the police.

  As Jillian pulled the tiny MG into the Whitcombs’gravel drive and killed the engine, Harvath glanced at her in the pale light spilling from the cottage. It was the first time he had really taken the opportunity to consider how attractive she was. Because the police would be looking for a woman with a tight bun, Harvath had suggested she let her hair down. It was a tremendous improvement. Her thick auburn tresses hung in loose curls around her shoulders, dramatically softening her features and causing her deep green eyes to stand out against her almost translucent white skin. Jillian Alcott now looked much less like the prim schoolmarm Harvath had pegged her for when he had first seen her leaving Abbey College.

  When they reached the porch, Harvath peered through the curtains and noticed that despite the late hour, both of the Whitcombs were awake and waiting for them inside. Alcott didn’t wait for a response. She simply knocked and let herself in. Vanessa Whitcomb, a stylish woman in her mid-sixties with platinum chin-length hair and designer glasses, met them in the entryway. “Thank heavens you made it. Are you okay, my dear?” she asked as she threw her arms around Jillian and gave her a big hug. “Your message had us so worried. Then we saw the news. Do you know that there was a shooting in London? They’re looking for a woman who could be your twin sister. The resemblance is uncanny.”

  “It’s not uncanny,” replied Alan Whitcomb, a taller, heavyset man with gray hair who appeared several years older than his wife. He looked Harvath up and down and with his eyes still locked on him said to Jillian, “It’s you in that footage, isn’t it? And this is the man who was there with you, the man with the gun. He’s the one the police are looking for, isn’t he?”

  “Alan,” Jillian implored, having come to a decision during their time together in the car that she might actually be able to trust Harvath. “It’s not like that. Scot saved my life.”

  Whitcomb didn’t know if he should believe her, and it was written all over his face.

  “I mean it. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. I wouldn’t be standing anywhere for that matter. You have to believe me.”

  Harvath stuck out his hand toward Whitcomb.

  Alan looked at the hand warily, as if deciding how much bad luck might rub off on him from shaking it, and then gave in. “You two are in a lot of trouble.”

  Harvath smiled and said, “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not exaggerating?”

  “He’s not,” replied Jillian, who turned to Vanessa and said, “It’s been a very long day. Do you mind if we come in?”

  “Of course, dear. Of course,” said Vanessa as she ushered them into the house, every square inch of which was covered with books. Even the dining room where they ended up was lined from floor to ceiling.

  Satisfied, for the time being, that Harvath had not brought Jillian to their home against her will, Alan disappeared into the kitchen and returned several minutes later carrying a large plate of antipasto, along with a bottle of wine and four glasses. “It’s not much, but I thought you might be hungry after your long drive.”

  “Starving, actually,” replied Harvath. “Thank you.”

  As they ate, Jillian filled the Whitcombs in on what had happened at Harvey Nichols, who Scot Harvath was, and why he wanted to meet them.

  The Whitcombs were deeply disturbed to hear about the disappearance of Emir Tokay, who had also been one of their students. Even so, Emir’s situation didn’t take them entirely by surprise. They had harbored reservations about many of the people associated with the Islamic Institute for Science and Technology for some time.

  When their meal was finished, Harvath tactfully moved the conversation back to the reason he and Jillian had come. As it was a chilly evening, Vanessa suggested they move into the living room, where Alan built a small fire in the fireplace. Once they were all installed, Mrs. Whitcomb cut right to the heart of the matter. “Based on the materials we’ve seen that Jillian got from Emir, it would appear that what we are dealing with is most definitely a pestilentiae manu factae.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Harvath, his mind not as sharp as he would have liked it to be. “A what?”

  “It’s Latin for man-made pestilence. That’s where our initial investigation is pointing. In fact, this is one of the first times Alan and I have both agreed on something like this right off the bat.”

  “You don’t normally agree?”

  “We practice two different brands of science, so we often have different ways of interpreting things.”

  “I’m confused,” replied Harvath as Alan poured a little more wine into his glass. “I thought both of you were Jillian’s paleopathology professors.”

  “Not exactly,” said Jillian. “I studied molecular biology under Alan in the graduate program here, and then he recommended me for Vanessa’s PhD program in paleopathology.”

  “The brightest and most apt pupil either of us ever had,” replied Mr. Whitcomb.

  “And I dare say we grew much closer to Jillian than any of our other students,” added Vanessa. “Even if we’d had children of our own, she still would be very special to us.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Harvath as he began to better understand their relationship, especially Jillian’s role as a surrogate daughter. “So what about Jillian’s hypothesis?”

  “I only know enough about Islamic science t
o know that I don’t like it. Though I can’t speak extensively to what relevance it may have to this case, I can speak to pestilentiae manu factae and say that they themselves have been used to affect society, political society in particular, for a long, long time.”

  Harvath’s interest was definitely piqued. Taking a sip of wine, he asked, “How?”

  “The term pestilentiae manu factae was coined by Seneca, the Roman philosopher and advisor to Emperor Nero, in the first century. It was meant to describe the deliberate transmission by mankind of plagues or pestilences. The ancients were very adept at manipulating their environment, and the history of the ancient world, particularly Roman civilization, is rife with stories of people who intentionally spread disease. In Rome, it often happened by pricking unsuspecting citizens with infected needles in order to undermine confidence in the empire’s leadership and topple unpopular governments.”

  “Jillian said this mystery illness we’re dealing with resembles an entry in some kind of ancient Machiavellian cookbook called the Arthashastra?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I find it hard to believe that anybody in the modern world would be interested in something like that. Outside of academics, of course.”

  “You’d be surprised,” responded Mrs. Whitcomb. “For some people, the Arthashastra still holds a lot of relevance, even to this day.”

  Harvath looked at her. “Like whom?”

  “I can give you a perfect example. As recently as two years ago, the Indian Defense Ministry began funding a study of the Arthashastra, hoping to uncover what they referred to as ‘secrets of effective stealth warfare,’ including chem-bio weapons, which could be used in the present day against India’s enemies.”

  “Such as Pakistan,” said Harvath.

  Vanessa nodded her head and continued on. “Military experts and scientists from Pune University looked into things like a recipe of wild boar’s eyes and fireflies, which was supposed to give soldiers enhanced night vision capabilities. There was another recipe that called for shoes to be smeared with the fat of roasted pregnant camels or bird sperm along with the ashes of cremated children which would then give wearers the ability to march for hundreds of miles without getting tired.”