Brad Thor - Blowback

“Exactly.”

“Which means the soldier was probably operating in some semi-covert capacity, maybe on one of the Special Operations Command’s direct action teams.”

“Right again,” said Turner.

“Do you know who he is?”

Turner smiled. “Nobody, it seems, wants to help hang this guy. I had to be very careful who I talked to and what information I pulled. He’s very highly thought of-kind of a hero in intelligence circles.”

“Quit dragging this out,” purred Carmichael as she grabbed the file folder away from him.

The young man watched as the senator pored over the pages, a smile curling the edges of her mouth.

“This is incredible,” she whispered as she continued to read. Toward the end of the dossier, she concluded, “This is beyond good, Brian. This guy is the president’s goddamn golden boy.”

Turner smiled again. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I more than appreciate it. This is the find of the decade.”

“His résumé is pretty lengthy. For some reason, he doesn’t seem to stay in one place too long. He served on both Navy SEAL Teams Two and Six, before the Secret Service hired him to come work at the White House. While he was there, he knocked one out of the park by rescuing the president during that whole kidnapping thing in Park City, Utah. That’s the move that earned him all his cachet around town. Shortly after that, he linked up with the CIA and started doing occasional assignments with members of the Special Operations Group. One involved a hijacking and the dismantling of the Abu Nidal terrorist organization, and another involved the Russians and the suitcase nukes they were threatening to detonate here.”

“He seems to be behind a lot of the president’s successes.”

“He does,” agreed Turner, “but then all of a sudden he got dumped over at the Department of Homeland Security. He’s now working in some innocuous police and intelligence liaison unit called the Office of International Investigative Assistance.”

Carmichael closed the folder and tapped it against her chin for several moments. “Something tells me we’re going to find that the Office of International Investigative Assistance is anything but innocuous and that our new friend is up to a lot more than just liaising with police and intelligence people.”

“Where are you going?” asked Turner, as the senator slid out of bed and began getting dressed. “I thought we were going to spend the evening together.”

“I can’t. Not now. There’s much too much to be done. But I want you,” said Carmichael as she bent down and gave Brian a deep kiss, “to sleep like an angel tonight. You deserve it. I also want you well rested, because I’ll probably need you in the morning. Keep an eye on your hotmail account. If we need to talk, I’ll send you a message, and then we’ll use the Breast Cancer Forum chat room like before.”

Before Brian Turner could respond, the senator was out the apartment door and on her way down to the lobby.

The moment she stepped outside, Carmichael pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed her assistant’s home number.

“Hello?” said an obviously tired voice on the other end of the line.

“Neal, it’s Helen. I want you in the office in twenty minutes. As soon as you get there, start pulling everything you can on an ex-Navy SEAL who used to work Secret Service at the White House and is now over at DHS named Scot Harvath. I want you to dig as deep as you can. Get my black Rolodex out of the safe and start calling in favors. We need to know everything about this guy, especially what he’s been involved with since he began working at the White House a couple years ago. Am I clear? Do you have all that?”

“Yes, Senator,” said the assistant, who was now wide awake.

“Good,” replied Carmichael. “You’ve now got eighteen minutes to get yourself into the office. Get moving. I want to make the morning news cycle.”

MANDARIN ORIENTAL HOTEL

WASHINGTON, DC

Chief of Staff Charles Anderson found the Swiss ambassador at a quiet table in the Mandarin’s lobby bar.

“Can I buy you a drink, Chuck?” asked Hans Friederich as a waitress set down his martini.

“I’ll have a light beer,” said Anderson. “I don’t care what kind.”

“Light beer?” said the ambassador as the waitress smiled and walked away. “Since when does Charles Anderson drink light beer?”

“Since my trousers started getting a little too snug around the waist.”

The ambassador laughed good-naturedly.

“I’m also going back to the office tonight,” added the chief of staff. “We’ve got a bit of a situation brewing.”

“I’ve been watching your situation brewing all day on TV,” said Friederich.

Anderson grimaced. “Yeah. The al-Jazeera thing. Believe it or not, that’s shaping up to be the least of my worries at this point.”

“Then I’m sorry that I might soon be adding to them.”

“Why?” asked Anderson. “Are Mitzi and the kids okay?”

“They’re fine.”

“How about you? You look like maybe you should start thinking about switching over to light beer too.”

The ambassador smiled and shook his head. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Friederich tilted his head in the direction of the approaching waitress and fell silent. Once the young woman had poured Anderson ’s beer and left the table, the ambassador continued. “I have some information for you, but before I give it to you, I want you to know that we’re only an intermediary. My government has no way of corroborating what I am about to share.”

“Understood. What do you have?”

“The sword of Allah.”

“The sword of Allah?” repeated Anderson. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“If what I hear is true, you are about to become extremely familiar with it. It’s a weapon with which Islamic fundamentalists intend to purge the world of all but the most devoted Muslims.”

“And exactly what kind of a weapon is this?”

“It’s a sickness that infects all but the most devout followers of Islam.”

Anderson almost spit his beer back in his glass. How the hell did the Swiss ambassador know about this? He took a moment to glance around the bar to make sure nobody was listening to them. “Where’d you get this information?”

“I’m here on behalf of a man who does a tremendous amount of business with my country.”

“Who?”

“He’s not a Swiss citizen, but he has been extremely-”

“Damn it, Hans. I don’t have time to fool around. Who the hell did you get this information from?” demanded Anderson.

“Ozan Kalachka.”

“Kalachka the Turk? The terrorist?”

“The terrorist characterization is malicious and unfounded,” replied Friederich.

“Unfounded, my ass. Western intelligence, in particular the CIA, knows-”

“Western intelligence knows precious little. In fact, Western intelligence, your CIA in particular, has been trying to compile a detailed dossier on him for years without any luck.”

“We know enough about him,” said Anderson.

“I don’t think so. In fact-”

“Hans, let me save you some time. If you’re here trying to promote Ozan Kalachka for U.S. citizenship in exchange for whatever dubious information he may or may not have, forget it. We don’t want anything to do with him. And frankly, I can’t understand why Switzerland bothers with him either.”

“Mr. Kalachka is a businessman. He has many legitimate international contacts that have proven very profitable for Switzerland.”

“And lots of not-so-legitimate contacts that have proven very profitable for Switzerland ’s private banking industry.”

“True,” said Friederich as he took another sip of his martini. “But in all fairness, the United States had their Adnan Khashoggi to help cement its relationship with the Saudis and their mountains of money. One trillion they have in your economy now, if I recall correctly. It’s no wonder you remain so loyal to them. If they pulled their money out of America, your economy would collapse.”