by Brad Thor
Harvath sat glued to his window as the Citation X glided in over the runway and then touched down with a gentle bump of its tires. A string of neon fire trucks and two ambulances had been mobilized and were following the jet on a taxiway just beyond the runway.
It wasn’t the reception Harvath had expected. There wasn’t a police car or an unmarked government sedan in sight. Even so, he remained on guard.
The plane taxied off the runway into a holding area. When the aircraft came to a stop, the emergency vehicles surrounded it and their teams got to work.
Harvath unbuckled his seat belt and moved to the other side of the jet to see what was going on.
As he did, the main cabin door opened and the high-pitched whine of the Citation’s Rolls-Royce engines filled the aircraft.
A moment later, several firefighters clambered up the airstairs and entered the cabin. Their walkie-talkies belched with orders being barked back and forth between emergency personnel. It was all just background noise to Harvath. He was focused on the men themselves.
Beneath their Nomex turnout gear, they looked like every other firefighter Harvath had ever met. They were lean and athletic, with serious, hard-set faces that communicated they had a job to do.
The only problem was that they bore the same look as many of the elite military and law enforcement personnel Harvath had met and worked with over his years in both the SEALs and the Secret Service.
Harvath stood up and started moving toward the front of the cabin. That was when he saw it. The second “firefighter” had something pressed up against the back of the man in front of him.
In the reflection from the highly polished cabinetry of the galley, Harvath could make out the unmistakable color and size of a TASER X26 pulsed energy weapon. It was the same device he’d used on Ronaldo Palmera just days before.
Harvath was trapped.
CHAPTER 63
As part of his training years ago, Harvath had taken a hit from the TASER to see what it was like. In a word, it was intense—more intense than anything he had ever experienced. He had no desire to ride the bull again, so now he simply sank to his knees and interlaced his fingers behind his head. His twenty-four hours had evaporated a lot faster than he’d anticipated.
With a knee against his neck and his face pressed against the jet’s carpeted cabin floor, Harvath felt the burn of the Flexicuffs as they zipped his wrists up behind his back.
They were being exceptionally rough with him, and their message was clear—Screw with us and things are going to get much worse.
A black Yukon Denali was waiting at the bottom of the airstairs. Harvath’s feet never even touched the ground.
He was thrown into the backseat and bracketed by two men who slammed their doors in unison. One of them buckled him in as the other told the driver to get moving.
He didn’t see the hood until it was placed over his head and everything went black.
It was a long ride. Every minute of sensory deprivation in that impenetrable darkness felt like an hour. When the SUV finally came to a halt, one of Harvath’s minders opened his door and then jerked him from the Denali.
Harvath heard birds and what sounded like a motor of some sort off in the distance. It might have been a lawn mower, but based on the Doppler effect it had produced he guessed it was a boat of some sort. They were probably near the water.
A rough set of hands grabbed hold of him on the other side and he was ushered forward. The smooth pavement under his feet gave way to grass and then to wooden steps.
He was directed up them and made to stop as a door of some sort was opened. The air inside smelled musty, with a faint trace of Pine Sol.
Harvath was steered down a long hallway and stopped in front of another door where his Flexicuffs were removed. The door was then opened and after his wrists were unbound and his hood was yanked off he was shoved inside. Behind him he heard the door close and lock.
At first, all he could see was the color white. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, he began to make out some blues, as well as the dark color of the distressed-wood floor. A clutch of hand-painted lobsterman buoys were the first objects he could actually focus on. From there, the entire room began to open up.
The décor was straight out of Coastal Living magazine—bead-board walls, model ships, pillows created from old nautical flags. While Harvath had envisioned many kinds of cells the president might have him thrown into, none of them had resembled this.
Skirting a small daybed, Harvath walked over to the window. He wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t open it. What did surprise him was that it appeared to be made out of bullet-resistant glass, about an inch and a half thick. This was definitely no ordinary room.
Harvath figured he was in some sort of safe house. The first agency that popped into his mind as being its likely owner was the CIA, though it could have belonged to any number of others.
Harvath had seen a lot of safe houses in his day, and all things being equal, the quality of the décor in this one suggested the Central Intelligence Agency’s involvement over any other group.
The closet was empty, as was the bureau against the far wall. In the nightstand was a Bible with a stamp claiming the Gideons had placed it there, which was obviously someone’s idea of a clever joke.
Harvath noted that the model ships throughout the room were named for Ivy League universities. He was definitely in an Agency safe house, but why? Why bring him here?
There were two doors on either side of the room. One led to a bathroom, conspicuously missing the normal hardware such as a shower rod or mirror that could be fashioned into a weapon. Harvath turned on the tap and took several servings of water from a small paper cup before returning to the bedroom.
The other door presumably led to the interior of the house, but it was locked. No big surprise there. Harvath figured that there was at least one, maybe two guards posted on the other side. Knowing the penchant of the CIA for electronic surveillance, he also assumed his room was wired for both sound and video.
With nothing else to do, he removed the Bible from the nightstand and sat down on the bed. A product of the Sacred Heart school system as a boy, Harvath was embarrassed that it had been so long since he had held, much less read, a Bible.
He respectfully leafed through the pages until he arrived at the second book of the Old Testament, Exodus.
The book was broken into six sections, all of which Harvath was familiar with. He read about the Israelites’ enslavement and escape from Egypt, the ten plagues bearing especially painful significance for him now.
If the attack on the ski team and its facility in Park City was meant to represent hail and fire, there were six more plagues that were yet to come. He read through them in their reverse order—boils, pestilence, beasts or flies, fleas or lice, frogs, and lastly a river of blood.
While some of them sounded tame by modern standards, Harvath knew the man responsible for all of these attacks, the man he believed to be the fifth terrorist released from Guantanamo, would find an exceptionally deviant and terrifying way to incorporate them into his attacks.
The thought of any more attacks made Harvath’s present situation an even more bitter pill to swallow. He had to find some way to get out of here and stop the person who was responsible for all of it.
Placing the Bible atop the nightstand, Harvath rose from the bed. He would take another look around the room. There had to be something here that could aid in his escape. He didn’t care if they had him under surveillance or not. Just sitting there doing nothing was not an option.
After checking the closet over thoroughly, he was on his way back into the bathroom when he heard voices outside his door. Looking down he saw the knob slowly begin to turn and he knew that he’d run out of time.
CHAPTER 64
When the door to his room opened, Harvath was surprised to see who was on the other side of it.
Before he could open his mouth, the man raised his TASER and pointed it at Harvath’s c
hest. He threw a pair of handcuffs at him and said, “Your right wrist to the bed frame, now.”
When Harvath hesitated, the man yelled, “Now!”
Harvath did as he was told.
With his prisoner secure, the man holstered his weapon, turned to the guard at the door, and nodded.
Once the guard had closed the door and the man with the TASER heard the click of the lock, he threw Harvath the keys to the handcuffs. “We’ve only got fifteen minutes of talk time while the surveillance servers are rebooted.”
“What the hell is going on here?” asked Harvath as he removed the handcuff from around his wrist and threw the keys back to Rick Morrell.
Morrell was a CIA paramilitary operative whom Harvath had worked with on several occasions in the past. After a considerably rocky start to their relationship, they had developed a professional respect for each other and even a friendship. Harvath didn’t know if his being here was a good thing or a bad thing. In the intelligence world, friendships were all too often subverted for matters of national security. Harvath hadn’t forgotten that President Rutledge wanted him for treason. He’d have to tread very carefully.
“You are in a shitload of trouble. You know that?” replied Morrell.
Harvath did know it and he didn’t need Rick Morrell or anyone else reminding him of it. “You’d have done the same thing in my situation.”
Morrell nodded. “That still doesn’t make my job any easier.”
Harvath didn’t like the sound of that. “Exactly what is your job?”
“By order of the president, I have been charged with stopping you from taking any further steps in relation to the attacks on Tracy Hastings, your mother, and the U.S. Ski Team.”
“So, the president does believe the ski team attack was by the same person?”
“Yes, he does,” said Morrell. “They found a note at the scene matching ones from the other two attacks.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that the president wants you out of the picture.”
“I’ve got every right to—” began Harvath, but Morrell interrupted him.
“You don’t have any rights. Jack Rutledge is the president of the United States. When he tells you to do something, you do it.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Well, it’s going to have to be,” said Morrell.
Harvath looked at him with disbelief. “Jesus, you are an asshole. You know that? A minute ago you agreed that you would have done the same thing in my position.”
“And I meant it.”
“So what’s your fucking problem?”
“My problem is that I and the other five members of my Omega Team on the other side of that door have been ordered to take you out if you refuse to cooperate.”
The response took Harvath by surprise.
“Dead or alive,” said Morrell as he read the expression on Harvath’s face.
Harvath had felt betrayed when the president had first turned on him, but now there were no words to describe what he was feeling. “And for an extra twist of the knife, you were chosen to head the hit team up. Should I call you Brutus or is Judas a better fit?”
“Rutledge didn’t choose me, Director Vaile did.”
“What’s the difference? You still accepted the assignment.”
“I accepted it all right. The DCI laid out a very compelling case.”
“I’m sure he did,” replied Harvath, the contempt evident in his voice. “I always liked Vaile, but apparently he never thought that much of me. Hell of a poker player. He had me fooled.”
“For the record,” said Morrell, “Vaile sucks at cards. And just so you know, he’s a decent guy. He’s probably one of the best directors the Agency has ever had. He’s a patriot who puts our country above everything else, even his own welfare.”
“What are you talking about?”
Morrell waved his arm around the room. “He’s the reason you’ve been brought here instead of some federal lockup. He’s the reason I’m here heading this team.”
“I don’t get it,” replied Harvath.
“Vaile has a lot of respect for you. While he may not think going head-to-head with the president of the United States is a great career move, he understands why you’re doing it. At the same time, he understands why the president is doing what he’s doing. The bottom line is that Vaile knows you’re not a traitor.”
“So then why am I here?” asked Harvath. “Why are we even having this conversation?”
Though all the monitoring devices were supposedly offline, Morrell leaned closer to Harvath, his voice barely above a whisper, though no less intense than it had been, and he said, “Because Director Vaile feels partly responsible for what has happened—Tracy, your mother, the ski team, all of it. He wants you to know why it’s going down.”
CHAPTER 65
Their time was short, so Morrell spoke quickly. “It is the stated policy of the United States government never to negotiate with terrorists. We all know it’s the nation’s first and most important commandment in the war on terror—Thou shalt not negotiate with terrorists.”
Harvath was well aware of the commandment. “But somebody broke it,” he guessed as he thought about the five prisoners released from Guantanamo.
Morrell nodded. “There is an exception to every rule.”
“Was the president directly involved in the prisoner release?”
Morrell looked toward the door and then back at Harvath. “Yes.”
Harvath had suspected all along that the president had been involved, but now he had confirmation.
“What I am about to tell you,” continued Morrell, “stays in this room. Your current status as a fugitive notwithstanding, you are still bound by your oath and the National Security nondisclosure agreements you signed before going to work at both the White House and DHS. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” replied Harvath.
Morrell took a deep breath. “There is only one instance where the United States will break its own rule of not negotiating with terrorists.”
In all Harvath’s experience he had never seen the First Commandment broken. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what would qualify as an exception.
Harvath had seen many horrible things in his career as a counterterrorism operative. A part of him questioned whether he truly wanted to know what would warrant such an exception, but he needed to know why the president was holding him back from protecting the people he cared about. He needed to know why some sick terrorist had been granted blanket immunity to do whatever he wanted to innocent American citizens.
“The exception,” said Morrell, “is when a terrorist or terrorist organization has targeted children.”
“You mean whoever has been carrying out these attacks targeted kids as well?”
“No. The five released from Guantanamo were still there when the attack in question took place. The group that brokered their release used the attack as leverage to get them out. I know you have been through a lot, but if it’s any consolation, the president had absolutely no choice in this.”
Harvath wasn’t ready to give Rutledge a pass just yet. He needed to hear more and signaled for Morrell to continue.
“Two days before the Gitmo five were released, a school bus filled with children as young as five years old went missing in Charleston, South Carolina. The terrorists threatened to begin killing a child every half hour until their demands were met.
“An immediate news blackout was ordered and federal authorities went into overdrive to find the bus. Satellites were retasked, the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team was activated, and members of Delta Force, SEAL Team Six, SEAL Team Eight, and even elements of the CIA were brought in. This was a direct attack upon our nation, the psychological impact of which could have been extremely severe. The president stopped at nothing.
“To demonstrate how serious they were, the terrorists killed the bus driver and left her behind the wheel of the abandoned bus
. When the report came in about the dead driver and the fact that we were no longer looking for a bright yellow school bus, people got even more worried. Either the terrorists had the children at one central location, or worse, the group had been broken up and taken to several different locations.
“Images of the Beslan school massacre in Russia were running rampant through everyone’s mind. Everybody knew that trying to take the children back by force could be a horrendous and deadly mistake. If the terrorists were attacked, there was little doubt that they would martyr themselves and take the children with them. There was absolutely no question, the United States’ only option was to negotiate.
“Originally, the terrorists wanted all of the prisoners released from Guantanamo. Slowly, the negotiators whittled it down to five and agreed that the president would sign some sort of letter promising, among other things, that all the secret detention facilities the United States was using around the world would be shut down, that prisoners at Gitmo would be provided with better food and medical care and more frequent visits from the Red Cross, that all prisoners would be brought to trial for their alleged crimes, and that these trials would be transparent, with international monitors present to vouch for their legality.”
“And the president went for that?” asked Harvath.
“He had no choice. The terrorists had put a gun to his head and they were ramping up to kill their first child. Their leader directed the president to a website where camera phone photos of the child the hostage takers had selected to be the first to die were posted. From what I was told, the photo would have broken your heart. They picked the youngest and cutest of the bunch. The image would have played very, very badly on the news.
“The NSA and several other agencies went to work on the website, while the president huddled with his advisors in the Situation Room. He had a very difficult and potentially historic decision to make.
“And we all know how it ended,” responded Harvath.
