by Brad Thor
Though he felt guilty for deceiving her parents, Harvath had no intention of giving it up. It was one of the few reminders he had of the way she was, the way they were, before they had been torn apart.
Entering the lounge, Harvath found his longtime friend and boss, Gary Lawlor, waiting for him. “How’s she doing?” he asked.
“Still the same,” replied Harvath. “Anything new on the investigation?”
Gary motioned for him to sit down. It was a windowless room with a television mounted on a wall bracket in the corner. Harvath took a seat and waited for the man who had become like a second father to him to close the door and sit down.
When Gary took his seat, his expression was all business. “We may have gotten a break in the case.”
Harvath leaned forward in his chair. “What kind of break?”
“It has to do with the blood that was painted above your doorframe.”
“What about it?”
“The forensics people now know it wasn’t human.”
“What was it?”
“Lamb’s blood.”
Harvath was confused. “Lamb’s blood? That’s doesn’t make any sense.”
“No,” replied Gary, “but it’s what they found mixed with the blood that I want to talk to you about.”
Harvath didn’t say anything. He just waited.
Leaning forward, Lawlor lowered his voice and said, “After Bob Herrington’s funeral, the secretary of defense took you for a ride and asked if you were up to taking out his killer. Do you remember him telling you that they were planning on letting him escape so that they could track him back to the people he was working with?”
“Yes, so?”
“So, do you remember how they planned on tracking him?” asked Lawlor.
Harvath thought about it a moment. “They spiked his blood with some sort of radioisotope that created a signature they could follow via satellite.”
Lawlor leaned back in his chair and watched as Harvath processed the information.
“The lamb’s blood contained a radioisotope.”
Lawlor nodded.
“That’s impossible. I took care of Bob’s killer myself.” Harvath was about to add and I watched him die when he realized he hadn’t actually witnessed the terrorist check out.
Though Harvath doubted anyone could have survived what he had done to Mohammed bin Mohammed, the fact remained that he hadn’t actually confirmed that the man was dead.
“They don’t believe it was Mohammed,” said Lawlor. “From what I have been able to gather, this is a completely different radioisotope.”
“Purposely put into the lamb’s blood and painted over the front door of my house?” asked Harvath.
Once again, Lawlor nodded.
“Why?”
“Somebody is sending you a message.”
“Obviously, but who? If it’s a radioisotope, even if it’s a different one than what was used on Mohammed, it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out where it came from. We’ll start there.”
“It’s not going to be that easy,” said Lawlor.
“Why not? The whole thing is a DOD program. They keep records like anyone else. Contact the Def Sec’s office and let him know we need access.”
“I already tried.”
“And?” Harvath asked impatiently.
“No go.”
“No go? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Lawlor shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’m not kidding.”
“Then we’ll go to the president. Even the defense secretary answers to someone. If President Rutledge tells him to open his files, believe me, he’ll open his files,” said Harvath.
“I already spoke with President Rutledge. It’s a no go.”
Harvath couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I want to talk to the president myself.”
“He knew you’d say that,” said Lawlor. “And he feels he owes it to you. There’s a car waiting for us downstairs.”
CHAPTER 6
THE WHITE HOUSE
When Harvath and Lawlor were shown into the Oval Office, President Rutledge stood up and came around his desk to greet them.
He shook Gary’s hand and then as he shook hands with Harvath inquired, “How’s she doing?”
“Still no change, sir,” replied Harvath as the president ushered him and Lawlor to one of the sofas perpendicular to the Oval Office fireplace.
As they took their seats, Rutledge got right to the point. “Scot, I know I speak for all Americans when I say that I am very sorry for what happened to Tracy. This nation owes your entire team a great debt for what you did in New York.”
Harvath had never been comfortable with praise, especially when it came from the president, but he was even less comfortable now. The operation in New York City had essentially been a failure. So many people had died, including one of his best friends. Though Harvath and his team had managed to take down most of the terrorists involved with the plot, they had been playing catch-up the entire way. It was not something he was at all proud of.
He acknowledged the president’s remarks with a quiet “thank you” and listened as the man continued.
“Scot, you have been one of this nation’s greatest assets in the war on terror. I don’t want you for a moment to doubt how much your service has been appreciated. I know too well that yours can often be a thankless job and that is why I am thanking you once again.”
Harvath had a bad feeling about where this was going. He could sense the other shoe was about to drop. He didn’t have to wait long.
Jack Rutledge looked him right in the eye and stated, “We’ve known each other for several years and I’ve always been straight with you.”
Harvath nodded. “Yes, you have, sir.”
“Often against the advice of my advisors, I have filled you in on the big picture because I wanted you to understand your role in it and why you were being asked to do certain things.
“What’s more, I filled you in because I knew I could trust you. Now, I am asking you to trust me.”
The president paused as he tried to get a read on Harvath. The counterterrorism operative’s face was inscrutable, forcing Rutledge to ask, “Can you do that? Can you trust me?”
Harvath knew the correct answer was, Of course, I can trust you, Mr. President, but those were not the words that came out of his mouth. Instead, he replied, “Trust you regarding what, sir?”
It was not the answer the president wanted to hear, but it didn’t come as a surprise. There was a reason Scot Harvath was so good at what he did. He wasn’t a pushover, not by a long shot.
“I’m going to ask you to do something. I know you’re not going to like it, but this is where I need you to stay with me.”
Harvath’s alarm bells began ringing. He nodded slowly, encouraging the president to continue.
“I want you to let us track down the gunman who shot Tracy.”
The president wasn’t offering him a yes or no proposition. Even so, Harvath had no intention of being sidelined. Being careful of his word choice and his tone, he stated, “I’m sorry, Mr. President, I don’t understand.”
Rutledge didn’t mince words. “Yes, you do. I’m asking you to sit this one out.”
Too often, the fine art of diplomacy eluded Harvath. Looking the president right in the eyes he said, “Why?”
As president of the United States, Jack Rutledge didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, much less Scot Harvath. He didn’t even have to have this meeting with him, but as he’d stated, the president felt the nation owed Harvath a great debt—not only for what he’d done in New York and then afterward in Gibraltar, but on many other occasions.
What’s more, Harvath had once saved the president’s life, as well as his daughter’s. He deserved a better explanation and Rutledge knew it. The president just couldn’t give him one. “There are forces at play here I am not at liberty to discuss, even with you,” he said.
“I can appreciate that, Mr. President,
but this isn’t a random act of terrorism. Whoever did this did it because it’s personal. The blood above my door, the shell casing, the note—somebody is calling me out.”
“And I’ve assembled a team to take care of it.”
Harvath tried to keep his cool as he replied, “Mr. President, I know you’ve got the FBI working overtime, but as good as they are, they’re not the right agency for this job.”
“Scot, listen—” began the president.
“I don’t mean any disrespect, but from everything we’ve seen this guy is a professional assassin who’s probably affiliated with a major terrorist organization. If we’re going to catch him, the people hunting him have to understand his mind-set. They need to be able to think like him, and the FBI just can’t do that.”
“The people I’ve put on this job can. They’ll find him, I promise you.”
“Mr. President, this guy shot Tracy in the head. The doctors say it’s a miracle she wasn’t killed. She’s lying in a coma she may never come out of and it’s my fault—all of it. I owe it to her to find who did this. You have to bring me onboard.”
Rutledge had worried things would go this way. “Scot, I can’t stress enough how important it is that you trust me on this.”
“And I need you to trust me, Mr. President. Don’t sideline me. Whoever is on this team you’ve put together, I can help them.”
“No you can’t,” said Rutledge as he rose from his chair. It was a clear signal that their meeting was over.
Forced to stand, Harvath repeated, “Don’t shut me out of this, sir.”
“I’m sorry,” replied the president, extending his hand.
Reflexively, Harvath took it. Rutledge covered their clasped hands with his left and said, “The best thing you can do for Tracy right now is to be with her. We are going to get to the bottom of this, I promise you.”
Harvath’s shock was slowly being shoved aside by a surge of anger. But before he could say anything, Gary Lawlor thanked the president and steered Harvath out of the Oval Office.
As the door behind his visitors closed, the door to the president’s study opened and the tall, gray-haired, fifty-something director of the Central Intelligence Agency, James Vaile, stepped into the Oval Office.
Rutledge looked at him. “What do you think? Will he cooperate?”
Vaile fixed his eyes on the door Scot Harvath had just exited through and thought about the president’s question. Finally, he said, “If he doesn’t, we’re going to have a lot more trouble on our hands.”
“Well, I just promised him that your people were going to handle this.”
“And they will. They’ve got plenty of experience dealing with this kind of thing overseas. They know what they’re doing.”
“They’d better,” replied the president as he readied himself for a briefing in the Situation Room. “We can’t afford to have Harvath involved in this. The stakes are just too damn high.”
CHAPTER 7
Harvath and Lawlor rode back to the hospital in silence. Harvath didn’t like being hamstrung, especially when they were facing a problem he was more than qualified to handle.
Lawlor didn’t push him to talk. He’d known before they even got to the White House how the meeting was going to unfold. The president had made it absolutely clear that he didn’t want Harvath or anyone else poking around in this investigation. What he didn’t say was why.
Though Lawlor wasn’t happy with the president’s decision either, he had to give Rutledge credit for telling Scot in person. He was right—it was the very least he owed him.
At the hospital’s entrance, the driver pulled the car to the curb and Harvath climbed out. There were a million things Lawlor wanted to say to him, but none of them seemed appropriate at this point. Instead, it was Harvath who broke their silence. “He has put together a special team to hunt Tracy’s shooter, yet I can’t have anything to do with it? That doesn’t make any sense. There’s a lot more to this than he’s telling us, Gary, and it pisses me off.”
Lawlor knew he was right, but there was nothing either of them could do about it. The president had given them a direct order. Though he was just as bewildered as Scot was, Lawlor only nodded and replied, “Let me know if anything changes with Tracy.”
Disgusted, Harvath closed the car door and walked into the hospital.
Upstairs in Tracy’s room, her parents were eating lunch. As he entered the room, Bill Hastings asked, “Any news on the investigation?”
Harvath had no desire to burden Tracy’s parents with his problems, so he told them a half truth. “They’re working it from all sides. The president has taken a personal interest in the investigation and is doing everything he can.”
The ventilator continued its rhythmic hiss, pop, hiss, pop, and Harvath tried to ignore it. Pulling a chair up alongside the bed, he took Tracy’s hand and whispered in her ear that he was back.
If only the president could see her like this, he might not be so quick to pull him off the investigation. All the way back to the hospital, Harvath had tried to figure out why Rutledge was doing this. No matter how many angles he came at it from, none of them made any sense.
The president knew better than anyone else what an asset Scot could be in a case like this. For a moment, he thought maybe Rutledge was concerned about the task being too emotional for him, but Harvath had more than proven himself capable of separating his work from his emotions.
The more Harvath thought about it, the more he realized he actually took everything about his job personally, and that was one of the things that made him so good at what he did.
No, the fact that he had a personal stake in the outcome of this investigation didn’t have anything to do with why the president was boxing him out. It had to be something else.
Harvath gently stroked his fingers up and down Tracy’s arm as his mind ran through yet more possibilities. The more scenarios he constructed, the further away he felt he was getting from the truth. He thought he knew the president pretty well, but this time he couldn’t figure him out.
Harvath replayed the meeting in his mind’s eye. He’d been taught through vigorous Secret Service training how to spot microexpressions, the subtle subconscious clues a subject gives out when he is lying or preparing to do something dishonest. Even the best of Washington’s doublespeak politicians couldn’t hide their intentions or the truth from a seasoned Secret Service agent who knew what to look for. And Scot Harvath knew what to look for.
For whatever reason, President Jack Rutledge had been lying to him. Harvath was certain of it.
He was still deliberating this when his BlackBerry rang. He ignored the call and let it go to voicemail. Nothing was more important than being with Tracy right now.
When the phone rang two more times, Harvath figured it might be urgent and pulled the device from the holster clipped at his hip. The caller ID showed a Colorado area code.
He depressed the button to answer the call, raised the device to his ear, and said, “Harvath.”
“Are you alone?” came a voice from the other end.
Harvath glanced at Bill Hastings, who was reading a copy of the New York Times as he ate his lunch. Turning his attention back to his phone he said, “Yeah, go ahead.”
“Are you still interested in midget wrestling?”
Harvath sat up straighter in his chair. “You’ve got something?”
“Affirmative,” said the voice.
“What is it?”
“Not over the phone. I’ve got a plane waiting for you. Don’t bother packing a bag. You need to get out here ASAP.”
Harvath looked at Tracy and was silent.
“ASAP,” repeated the voice.
Though Harvath was certain he must have imagined it, he thought for a moment he had felt Tracy return his grasp.
“Are you still there?” asked the voice after several seconds of silence.
Harvath snapped himself out of it. “Yeah, I’m still here,” he replied.
&nbs
p; “Reagan National, now,” ordered the voice. Then the line went dead.
CHAPTER 8
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Mark Sheppard was a big fan of zombie movies. Dawn of the Dead, 28 Days Later—you name it and chances were that Sheppard had not only seen it, but owned it. There was something about death that had always fascinated him.
It was a strange preoccupation, but one that had served the tall, sandy-haired twenty-seven-year-old reporter well. He had begun his career at the Baltimore Sun writing obituaries. It was a probationary assignment designed to allow editors to evaluate the writing and copyediting skills of their cub reporters. Most young journalists hated their time on the obit desk, but Sheppard had reveled in it.
From there he moved to the crime beat. Legendary crime reporter Edna Buchanan had once said that the crime beat “has it all: greed, sex, violence, comedy, and tragedy,” and she was right. Though it was a high-turnover, sink-or-swim position where editors continued to test their journalists’ mettle before promoting them to more glamorous beats, Sheppard fell in love with it and made it known that he had no intention of ever doing any other sort of reporting.
To his credit, Sheppard was an exceptional crime reporter. He had an eye for detail and a propensity for sourcing, and he knew how to tell one hell of a story. Over his years on the beat he had developed a wide array of contacts—on both sides of the law. Both police captains and mob captains respected him for his integrity. His sources always knew that he never went to press unless he had gotten all of his facts straight.
Because of his reputation for being a straight shooter and always protecting the anonymity of his sources, news tips flowed in Sheppard’s direction on a regular basis. They rarely proved newsworthy. The key was to know which ones were worth running down. Hemingway had once said that a writer needs to have a “shockproof bullshit detector,” and Sheppard couldn’t have agreed with him more. He found that the amount of energy he put into investigating a tip was often commensurate with how solid its source was. Of course, for every rule there was always an exception.
