Brad Thor - Blowback

“How about a police station?” replied Alcott. “They’re quiet enough, and we’ll both be safe there.”

“We can’t go to the police.”

“We can’t?” she mustered up the courage to say. “Or you can’t?”

“It’s the same thing now,” stated Harvath. “We’re in this together. “Through the rain, he could make out a pub sign about half a block down. After glancing over his shoulder he said, ”There’s a pub up ahead. We can talk there. Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” said Alcott. “I don’t even know who you are. The only place I want to go is to the police.”

Harvath was anxious to get off the street and out of the rain. Any minute now, the area would be crawling with police. He could already hear the sirens, and even though he’d been careful to avoid showing his face to the department store’s security cameras, there was no telling if any eyewitnesses had gotten a good look at him.

Harvath needed time to think, and like it or not, for at least the near future, he and Alcott were going to be joined at the hip.

He thought about using the gun and telling her she had no choice, but playing hardball was only going to make traveling with her more difficult. He needed her to trust him. “If you don’t come inside with me, not only will you be putting your life in further jeopardy, but Emir Tokay’s as well.”

The look on the woman’s face told him that he’d struck the right chord. The resistance drained from her body, and Harvath was able to quickly steer her off the street and into the dimly lit pub.

It was called The Bunch of Grapes and turned out to be one of London ’s oldest pubs. As Harvath led Alcott to a quiet table in the back, he noticed a sign that said it had been in existence since 1777. The rich, wood-paneled interior was steeped in London history and was exactly what one would expect to find in a traditional English public house, especially one that had been around for more than two hundred years.

After hanging their soaking wet coats near the door, Harvath ordered two Irish coffees from the bar and brought them back over to their table.

Jillian reached for her drink and in the most confident voice she could summon said, “I’m giving you five minutes to tell me who you are and what this is all about. Why would somebody want to kill me?”

Harvath was famished. He opened the package of salt and vinegar chips he had bought at the bar, took a couple of bites, and then washed them down with a mouthful of hot Irish coffee before responding. “My name is Scot Harvath, and I work for the American government. The man from the department store who tried to kill you is named Khalid Sheik Alomari. He’s an al-Qaeda assassin.”

“An al-Qaeda assassin is after me?”

“Yes.”

“And you just let him follow me all the way to Harvey Nichols?”

“I wasn’t able to get a good look at him until just before everything happened.”

“This is preposterous. Why would an al-Qaeda assassin be after me?”

“Because of your relationship with Emir Tokay.”

“My relationship? But Emir and I are just friends,” responded Jillian. “We went to university together. Why would someone, much less al-Qaeda, want to kill me over that?”

Most people would have missed it, but Harvath noticed a subtle shift in her facial muscles that signaled she was not being completely truthful. It was called a microexpression, and through their extensive training, U.S. Secret Service agents were the only human beings consistently capable of detecting them. It was a skill Harvath had worked tirelessly to keep sharp, and it was precisely at moments like this that he was glad he had. “There’s more to this than that,” replied Harvath, “and you know it. Emir was working on a very serious project that he contacted you about for help.”

“I don’t know anything about any project Emir was working on.”

There it was again, the tell. “Dr. Alcott, everybody on that project is dead now. Everybody except for Emir, and if you don’t want the same thing to happen to him, I suggest you cooperate.”

Jillian was silent as she decided what, if anything, she should divulge. This man knew that she had been followed since leaving Abbey College because he had been following her too. In her opinion, that made him just as suspect. Just because he managed to get to her first didn’t automatically make him one of the good guys. What proof did she have that he was telling her the truth? Emir had warned her to be extremely careful about whom she spoke to about anything regarding his work.

Jillian quickly made up her mind that before she would answer any of Harvath’s questions, she had a few more of her own she wanted answered. “If you work for the American government, why can’t we go to the police?”

“It’s tricky, “He replied.

“I can only imagine,” said Jillian, her courage bolstered by the Irish coffee and the presence of other people at the front of the somewhat crowded pub. “You are quickly running out of time to explain it to me.”

Harvath took a moment to compose himself as he chose his next words very carefully. “The man who shot at you at the department store-”

“Allegedly,” replied Jillian.

“What do you mean, allegedly?” said Harvath. “What do you think those mannequins were doing? Bursting with pride because they found work in the lingerie department?”

Jillian looked Harvath square in the face and said, “How do I know he wasn’t shooting at you and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Harvath couldn’t believe what a state of denial this woman was in. “Trust me. Khalid Alomari came to London to kill you.”

“Really?” she replied. “Then what was he waiting for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said he’d been following me since I left the school. Why? Why follow me all the way to Harvey Nichols, then wait around while I was in the café? Why not kill me outside the school or even on the Tube? Why draw it out?”

“I don’t know,” replied Harvath. “The only thing I can think of is that he must have wanted something from you.”

“Like what?”

“Information, probably. Like how much you knew about Emir’s work and who else he might have been talking to.”

“Which are exactly the same things I assume you want,” she said as she looked at Harvath. “But that still doesn’t explain why he waited.”

“Maybe he planned on following you home. Do you live alone?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

Harvath read her face and said, “You live alone, I can tell, but that doesn’t matter. Alomari is ruthless. He would have killed anyone who stood in his way of getting the information he wanted.”

“But I don’t have any information.”

Harvath could tell she was lying again, but he let it go. “When he saw me at the department store, he probably realized he wasn’t going to be able to get to you, and so he figured if he couldn’t, then no one would.”

“How romantic,” replied Jillian. “How do you know so much about this Alomari person?”

“Until recently, it was my job to hunt him down and bring him in.”

“So how come he’s still on the loose?”

“He’s very good at what he does and extremely adept at not getting caught. For over two months he’s been my number one priority, but all that’s changed now.”

“Why?” said Jillian. “What’s happened?”

“Emir Tokay is what happened. He and his colleagues have engineered an illness, which poses a serious threat to the West.”

Jillian’s mouth was agape. They had done it. “How come word of this hasn’t made it into the press?” she asked as she stared at the man sitting across the table from her. There was something about him, something she couldn’t put her finger on. She was torn between wanting to trust him and wanting to get up and run like hell. He could very well be one of the bravest, most confident men she had ever met, or the most insane and dangerous. There was a chance that he was just the wrong mix of all of the above. Until she uncovered why he refused to go to the police, though, there was no way she could even begin to consider answering his questions. Taking another sip of her drink, she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Harvath, but I find it extremely disconcerting that you still haven’t explained why we, or more particularly you, can’t go to the police.”