Brad Thor: The Apostle

An international celebrity in her own right, Gallo competed successfully in a largely male world and made no apologies for doing it as a woman. Women around the world adored her not only for her sense of style, which retained just a hint of sex appeal, but also for her frank belief that God had blessed women with curves and that any woman who tried to exercise her body into a replica of a teen-aged boy’s was a fool.

But despite everything she had going for her, all of the notoriety, money, and power, right now she needed a man: this man. Only Robert Alden could effect her daughter’s release, and Stephanie Gallo was determined to make that happen-no matter what it took.

Alden put his hand on her shoulder. “I understand how you must feel.”

Gallo didn’t like being patronized. “Really? Then why aren’t you doing anything? We own that fucking country, for God’s sake. Agree to the terms!”

And here they were again, back at the beginning of the argument. Alden tried to explain his position once more. “Stephanie, I agree with the CIA’s assessment. These people kidnapped Julia for this very reason. They knew you would come to me and ask me to intervene.

“The terrorist imprisoned in Kabul, the one they want for Julia, is an al-Qaeda operative-a very bad one. Do you know how many high-level Afghan government officials he has helped kill? For the Afghan government, this is like capturing Lee Harvey Oswald, John Hinkley, and John Wilkes Booth all at once. We can’t say that we want Afghanistan to obey the rule of law only when it serves our interests. Besides, I ran on a platform of being tough on terrorists and not repeating any of the mistakes of my predecessors.”

“Screw your platform and screw your predecessors,” snapped Gallo. “We’re talking about Julia’s life, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m sorry, Stephanie. I-”

“What do you mean, you’re sorry? Are you telling me that we can’t convince the Afghans to give us this Mustafa Khan for twenty-four hours, forty-eight tops, so that we can get my daughter back?”

“And if we lose him?” asked Alden.

“Then flood the skies with Predators and retask all of our satellites over Afghanistan. I don’t care. I just want her back.”

“I know you do. I do too. I also care about what happens in Afghanistan. You’ve got to know that this is not easy for me.”

Gallo scowled at the president. “This is your first chance to really exercise your power, and you’re afraid to use it. That’s what I think.”

Alden could feel his blood pressure rising, and he fought to keep it under control. “I warned you both about this. Julia knew the risks when she took that job over there.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“Stephanie, I’ve explained to you how this works. The Afghans take the lead in kidnapping investigations within their own country-even those of American citizens. The CIA, everyone at our embassy in Kabul, and our entire military apparatus in theater are doing everything they can to get Julia back.”

“Except giving her kidnappers the one thing they’ve asked for.”

Alden shook his head sadly.

“You’re the president of the United States. You’re telling me you can’t tell the Afghans that Khan is part of a larger investigation we are running and that we need to interrogate him in our facility at Bagram? Once we trade him for Julia and get her back, we can hunt him down ourselves. If the Afghans caught Khan once, we should be able to catch him a second time with no problem.”

“First of all, the Afghans got lucky because someone tipped them off. Second, what you’re asking me to do is dishonest, and that’s not how I operate.”

Gallo stared at Alden and let the president’s statement hover between them like a lit stick of dynamite.

It didn’t take Alden long to get uncomfortable. His guest didn’t have to say a word. He knew what she was thinking. “Listen, Stephanie, we’re going to get Julia back. I promise.”

“I’m sorry, but your promise is not good enough. You need to start doing more. A lot more.”

“Or what?”

Gallo’s eyes bore right into Alden’s. “Or your presidency is going to be one of the shortest in U.S. history.”

“Are you threatening me?” he asked.

“You’re damn right I’m threatening you. We’ve lost two days. It’s time for you to get her back.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then,” said Gallo, choosing her next words carefully, “the world is going to quickly find out that the new American president was not only an accessory to the deaths of four innocent people, but actively conspired to cover it up.”

Fifteen yards away, in the thick blanket of trees that bordered Stephanie Gallo’s equestrian estate, a young Secret Service agent froze dead in her tracks.

ROCKWOOD, MAINE

THURSDAY

Scot Harvath pounded down the abandoned logging road with his enormous white Caucasian Ovcharka right by his side.

A former Navy SEAL who, until recently, had been the nation’s top counterterrorism operative, Harvath was in his late thirties, five-foot-ten, with a handsome, rugged face, sandy brown hair, and bright blue eyes.

His dog, Bullet, stood nearly forty inches at the shoulder and weighed almost two hundred pounds. Caucasian Ovcharkas, or Caucasian Sheepdogs, as their name translates to, had been the breed of choice for the Russian military and the former East German border patrol. They were exceedingly fast, fiercely loyal, and absolutely vicious when it came to guarding their territory and those closest to them. If ever a dog and its owner resembled each other, it was these two.

Harvath and his girlfriend, Tracy, had spent their winter in Maine this year. Tracy’s grandfather, a former Navy man himself, had a winterized cottage on Moosehead Lake and was glad to see it used.

The peace and quiet had agreed with both of them. The snowshoeing, skiing, hunting, and chopping wood had taken Harvath to an entirely new level of physical fitness. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this good.

Now, spring had come early and summer appeared to be right on its heels. The snow and ice disappeared almost overnight and the temperature for two weeks straight had been downright balmy.

Harvath had been torn about the upcoming summer. On the one hand, he was excited to be getting back to work. The new president had been very aggressive with his first hundred days. Campaigning on a platform of “change,” he had done just that the minute he stepped into the Oval Office-and not necessarily for the better. Robert Alden had single-handedly eviscerated the nation’s intelligence apparatus.

Granted, much of it, especially at the CIA, needed to be ripped out and rebuilt, but for every smart move the man made, he made two more that were downright dangerous for the nation’s security. The elimination of the top-secret program where Harvath had been working under the previous administration was a prime example.

Dubbed the “Apex Project,” it was buried in a little-known branch of DHS called the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA for short. The OIIA’s overt mission was to assist foreign police, military, and intelligence agencies in helping to prevent terrorist attacks. In that sense, Harvath’s mission was in step with the official OIIA mandate. In reality, he was a very secretive dog of war enlisted post 9/11 to be unleashed by the president upon the enemies of the United States anywhere, any time, and with anything he needed to get the job done.

His sole mandate had been to help protect Americans and American interests at home and abroad by leveling the playing field with the world’s terrorists. And since they chose not to play by any rules, Harvath wasn’t expected to either.