Brad Thor - Blowback

“Or yours,” replied Carmichael with a grin.

Anderson ignored her and pressed forward. “Have you even polled this, Helen?”

“What? The hearings? I don’t have to. People are outraged. The American people are deeply disturbed by what they have seen, and they want justice to be done.”

“No they don’t, and they’re not outraged. This is exactly why you should have run this by your party leadership before you kicked this whole thing off. The Abu Ghraib prison photos outraged people. One of our servicemen kicking the crap out of a suspected terrorist is something entirely different.”

“Did you poll it?” asked Carmichael.

Anderson was silent.

“Jesus, you did. Didn’t you? What kind of numbers did you get?”

“I’m not going to do your homework for you, Helen. If you want to float a poll, you go right ahead and see what you get back. But I will tell you this. Unless you’re polling in Ramallah, Tehran, or downtown Baghdad, you’re not going to find an overwhelming amount of support for your hearings. Nobody wants this soldier dragged out in front of the media and nailed to a cross, and they’ll want it even less when we release our side of the story.”

“And what exactly is your side of the story?”

“Press with the hearings and you’ll find out.”

“Now that sounds like a threat.”

“You know what, Helen? I’m tired of this,” said the chief of staff as he stood from the couch and walked back over behind his desk. “You take it however you want to, but I’m warning you-you’re biting off more than you can chew.”

“Why? Because Scot Harvath, the man seen beating that defenseless Iraqi, is some kind of American hero for all of the things he’s done? Do you think you’ll be able to wrap him in the flag and the public will just give him a pass? How about the president? Do you think he can parade out that same trite line that he’s got a tough job to do and sometimes that job involves doing things others might not have the stomach for in order to keep this country safe? If you think that crap is going to work, you are sorely mistaken.”

“What I think is that you’ve got no idea what it takes to run this country, Senator.”

“I know it doesn’t take things like the Apex Project,” replied Carmichael, pausing for Anderson ’s reaction to her bombshell.

The chief of staff was ready for her, though. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the president’s own special black ops team that funds its budget with monies approved by Congress for a wide variety of fiscal and social programs. Since you’re such an expert, Chuck, how do you think Americans would feel if they knew what the president was really up to? Running his own private assassination teams out of the White House? How do you think that would poll?”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, and I’d tell your committee the exact same thing under oath.”

“Good,” replied Carmichael as she threw two subpoenas down on his desk-one bearing his name and another with the president’s. “I’ll look forward to it. Consider yourselves served.”

DURHAM, ENGLAND

The Whitcombs lived in a small Victorian cottage just off the University of Durham ’s main campus. The drive had taken more than six hours, and though Harvath was tempted to try to steal a little sleep along the way, he couldn’t risk it. They both needed to keep their eyes out for the police.

As Jillian pulled the tiny MG into the Whitcombs’gravel drive and killed the engine, Harvath glanced at her in the pale light spilling from the cottage. It was the first time he had really taken the opportunity to consider how attractive she was. Because the police would be looking for a woman with a tight bun, Harvath had suggested she let her hair down. It was a tremendous improvement. Her thick auburn tresses hung in loose curls around her shoulders, dramatically softening her features and causing her deep green eyes to stand out against her almost translucent white skin. Jillian Alcott now looked much less like the prim schoolmarm Harvath had pegged her for when he had first seen her leaving Abbey College.

When they reached the porch, Harvath peered through the curtains and noticed that despite the late hour, both of the Whitcombs were awake and waiting for them inside. Alcott didn’t wait for a response. She simply knocked and let herself in. Vanessa Whitcomb, a stylish woman in her mid-sixties with platinum chin-length hair and designer glasses, met them in the entryway. “Thank heavens you made it. Are you okay, my dear?” she asked as she threw her arms around Jillian and gave her a big hug. “Your message had us so worried. Then we saw the news. Do you know that there was a shooting in London? They’re looking for a woman who could be your twin sister. The resemblance is uncanny.”

“It’s not uncanny,” replied Alan Whitcomb, a taller, heavyset man with gray hair who appeared several years older than his wife. He looked Harvath up and down and with his eyes still locked on him said to Jillian, “It’s you in that footage, isn’t it? And this is the man who was there with you, the man with the gun. He’s the one the police are looking for, isn’t he?”

“Alan,” Jillian implored, having come to a decision during their time together in the car that she might actually be able to trust Harvath. “It’s not like that. Scot saved my life.”

Whitcomb didn’t know if he should believe her, and it was written all over his face.

“I mean it. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. I wouldn’t be standing anywhere for that matter. You have to believe me.”

Harvath stuck out his hand toward Whitcomb.

Alan looked at the hand warily, as if deciding how much bad luck might rub off on him from shaking it, and then gave in. “You two are in a lot of trouble.”

Harvath smiled and said, “I’ve seen worse.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not exaggerating?”

“He’s not,” replied Jillian, who turned to Vanessa and said, “It’s been a very long day. Do you mind if we come in?”

“Of course, dear. Of course,” said Vanessa as she ushered them into the house, every square inch of which was covered with books. Even the dining room where they ended up was lined from floor to ceiling.

Satisfied, for the time being, that Harvath had not brought Jillian to their home against her will, Alan disappeared into the kitchen and returned several minutes later carrying a large plate of antipasto, along with a bottle of wine and four glasses. “It’s not much, but I thought you might be hungry after your long drive.”

“Starving, actually,” replied Harvath. “Thank you.”

As they ate, Jillian filled the Whitcombs in on what had happened at Harvey Nichols, who Scot Harvath was, and why he wanted to meet them.

The Whitcombs were deeply disturbed to hear about the disappearance of Emir Tokay, who had also been one of their students. Even so, Emir’s situation didn’t take them entirely by surprise. They had harbored reservations about many of the people associated with the Islamic Institute for Science and Technology for some time.

When their meal was finished, Harvath tactfully moved the conversation back to the reason he and Jillian had come. As it was a chilly evening, Vanessa suggested they move into the living room, where Alan built a small fire in the fireplace. Once they were all installed, Mrs. Whitcomb cut right to the heart of the matter. “Based on the materials we’ve seen that Jillian got from Emir, it would appear that what we are dealing with is most definitely a pestilentiae manu factae.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harvath, his mind not as sharp as he would have liked it to be. “A what?”