Brad Thor - Blowback

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that Ozan Kalachka serves much the same function for us as Khashoggi has for you-he drums up capital for our ventures in other parts of the world.”

“Capital. It sounds so clean when you put it that way.”

“Come on, Chuck. We both know how the game is played. The difference with the Swiss, though, is that we recognized the value of doing business with Kalachka straight away. I believe Khashoggi didn’t get his job with the White House until he accidentally ‘forgot’a briefcase with a million dollars in it at the home of your President Nixon. After that, as I understand it, Mr. Khashoggi became quite popular over here. Your country even thought enough of him to allow him to act as the middleman during the whole Iran-Contra affair, didn’t it?”

“Those were different administrations,” replied Anderson, exasperated. “Can we please get to the point here?”

“The point is that you shouldn’t allow your preconceptions to cause you to dismiss the information Ozan Kalachka has-”

“Allegedly has, and I’m not dismissing it. I just don’t like the taste I get in my mouth when I say the guy’s name.”

“Does that mean you’re interested?”

“I still don’t completely know what we’re talking about. You’re going to have to give me more than just this cloak and sword of Allah routine.”

“Fair enough,” said the ambassador as he removed a small digital video player from his suitcoat pocket. “Mr. Kalachka thought you might need some additional convincing.”

Anderson watched in disbelief as he was shown virtually the same footage he had seen in the situation room that morning from Asalaam. “Where did you get this?”

“I told you,” said Friederich. “I’m just the messenger. You’ll have to ask Mr. Kalachka.”

“No doubt he wants something in return.”

“Yes. Mr. Kalachka apparently needs a favor.”

Anderson was understandably wary. “What kind of favor?”

“Mr. Kalachka is prepared to tell the United States what he knows about the weapon and will even provide access to one of the scientists who worked on it-”

“One of the scientists is still alive?”

“According to Mr. Kalachka, yes. But there is only one person he will give this information to, and he wants to arrange a meeting with him in private, at which point he will ask favor face-to-face.”

The chief of staff had known the Swiss ambassador for many years and could read him like a book. “Absolutely not. I won’t allow it.”

“Allow what?” asked Friederich. “I haven’t even told you who he wants to meet with yet.”

“I know you, Hans, and I can’t believe you thought for a second I’d allow the president of the United States to meet with a man like Ozan Kalachka.”

The ambassador couldn’t help laughing. “That would indeed be a historic meeting, but thankfully, President Rutledge is not the person Mr. Kalachka wishes to meet with. He has someone else in mind.”

Anderson was trying to guess who in the U.S. government Kalachka might want a favor from and why he would need the Swiss ambassador and the president’s chief of staff to put it together for him. “As long as this person is not the president or a cabinet member, I’m willing to consider arranging a meeting. Who are we talking about?”

The ambassador leaned forward and said, “Agent Scot Harvath.”

THE WHITE HOUSE

NEXT MORNING

What the hell do you mean, I’m fired?” said Harvath.

“I mean, you’re fired,” replied Charles Anderson, “and I don’t care how upset you are; this is the White House, and I will not tolerate that kind of language in this building.”

Harvath was never at a loss for words, but this time he honestly didn’t know what to say. He was absolutely stunned, and on top of that, he was completely exhausted. The debriefing had started the moment he touched down at Andrews Air Force Base, and the questions hadn’t stopped until a team of Secret Service agents came and whisked him away to the White House at nine o’clock this morning.

Before leaving Andrews, he had been given a few minutes to clean up. For the first time in his life, as he looked in the mirror of the men’s latrine, Harvath not only felt older than his thirty-five years, but thought he was starting to look it too. His constant workload had caught up with him. His bright blue eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with fatigue, and while the hair on his head was still light brown, traces of gray were starting to sneak into the stubble that covered his chin.

While in the SEALs, he had earned the code name Norseman, not for his rugged good looks, which were more Germanic than Norse, or because he fought like a fearsome Viking warrior, but rather because of the long string of Scandinavian flight attendants he had dated. As he splashed some cold water on his face and examined his haggard appearance, he wondered what he would look like in two or three more years if he kept going at this pace.

The one thing that didn’t seem to belie his age was his body, a testament to how hard he worked to keep himself in top physical condition. At five foot ten, and a solid one hundred seventy-five pounds, Harvath was in better shape and carried more muscle mass now than he had at twenty-five. The only effect that aging seemed to have on his body was that the pain that came with the invariable bumps and bruises of his job seemed to linger a lot longer than it used to. While an unfortunate byproduct of the way he lived his life, pain was one of the few things he felt he could exercise some semblance of control over. He had been taught time and again in the SEALs that pain was largely psychological.

What the mind can perceive, the body can achieve-and with that mantra playing on an endless loop in his mind, Harvath had forgone everything else in pursuit of his career, which now seemed to be coming to a screeching halt.

“I’m going to ask a stupid question,” said Harvath. “Does the president know I’m being dropped?”

Anderson reached into his drawer, removed a blue folder, and slid it across the desk to Harvath. “What he knows is that you’re resigning this morning.”

“So now I’m resigning?” replied Harvath as he slid the resignation letter out and read it over.

“You really screwed up in Baghdad,” continued the chief of staff. “The president didn’t like seeing you on TV.”

“Neither did I, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was a set-up.”

“I got that much from your debriefing report.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” replied Anderson, “is that you’ve created a firestorm with that takedown. A million and one fatwas have been issued against you, and every Muslim country on the planet wants to see you stand trial under Islamic law.”

“So?”

“So they’re not the only ones who want your head on a stake.”

“Who else does?”

“Senator Carmichael.”

“ Carmichael?” scoffed Harvath. “I’m not going to have anything to do with that woman.”

“You don’t get a say in the matter.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“Scot, I warned you about your language-”

“Chuck, give me a fucking break here, would you? We’re talking about my career. If you release my name and face to the public, not only will I never work again, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. You said it yourself-a million and one fatwas have been issued against me. Every radical Muslim on the planet will be looking to book the perfect corner table in Paradise by taking me out.”

Anderson leaned forward over his desk and looked at Harvath. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong. This isn’t about you or your career. This is about the president, and I’m not about to see him go down in flames trying to cover for you-not with the election around the corner.”