Brad Thor - Blowback

“Dr. Davidson,” said Jillian, “I can assure you this is a very serious matter. We need to know where these artifacts were discovered and who found them. In answer to your previous question, yes, we believe they are connected to a major international crime.”

“So you lied then. You’re not a paleopathologist at all,” said Davidson, breaking her silence. “What are you? Interpol?”

“Dr. Davidson, I didn’t lie to you. I am a paleopathologist, but this case is very complicated. Please. We need your help. You have to tell us who sent these artifacts to you.”

“Let me disabuse you of that notion right now,” snapped Davidson as she rose from her stool. “Unless you want to make all of this very official, I don’t have to tell you anything. It is strict Sotheby’s policy not to divulge the names or any other personal information about our clients. If you have reason to believe that these artifacts or the person or persons who supplied them to us are tied to some sort of criminal activity, then I suggest you speak with a local magistrate. Unless this company is properly served with the appropriate legal paperwork, we will give you nothing.”

“You’re asking us to start legal proceedings? Through the French legal system no less? Do you know how long that will take?” beseeched Jillian.

“That’s not my problem.”

“Dr. Davidson, I am imploring you-”

“What the hell is he doing?” demanded Davidson, standing up.

“Cutting through the red tape,” stated Harvath, who had walked back to the head of the table and was now rifling through a stack of file folders. “We don’t have time to wait for French or any other jurisprudence. We need this information now.”

“I’m calling security,” said Davidson as she reached for her phone.

“Stop her,” Harvath ordered Jillian.

Alcott couldn’t believe how rapidly things were deteriorating. “Let’s just all calm down here.”

Harvath had no intention of calming down. In the world Davidson and Alcott lived in, people might patiently sit back and move at a snail’s pace dictated by science, but that wasn’t his world. In Harvath’s world, either you set the pace or somebody else set it for you. Too many people were depending on him to get to the bottom of things as quickly as possible. Jillian had had her chance and failed. Now they were going to do things his way.

Harvath dropped the files he was looking at, came around the table, and got to Davidson just as she began speaking. He yanked the phone’s cord from the wall and said to her, “I always try my best to be nice until it’s time not to be nice, and guess what time it is now?”

Davidson fixed him with an icy stare. “What is it you want?”

“You know what I want,” said Harvath as he moved into her personal space, hoping to increase the intimidation factor. He didn’t like having to play hardball with a woman, but she wasn’t leaving him much choice. “I want all of the information you have on whoever sent you these artifacts, and I want it now.”

Davidson pointed to the pile of folders spilled on the floor and replied, “It’s down there in one of those.”

She was lying, and the lie was accompanied by a not so subtle shift of Davidson’s weight from one foot to the other. She wasn’t trying to get away-she was trying to obscure something from Harvath’s vision. What was it? Then Harvath figured it out. Her computer.

“I don’t suppose you want to make this easy for me?” he asked.

Davidson just glared at him.

“Okay, have it your way,” said Harvath as he pulled her chair out for her. “Take a seat. “The woman refused, and Harvath had no choice but to physically encourage her. The move scared her more than anything else, and she immediately dropped down in front of her computer. Harvath kept one hand clamped around her upper arm just in case there was any resistance. Little did he know that the resistance was going to come flying through the door at him like a Mack truck.

Before he could get Davidson to open any of her computer files, the office door exploded inward, and a powerful, black-clad, uniformed body came sailing across the desk toward him. Harvath let go of Davidson’s forearm just in time to raise his hands to protect his face. The security guard crashed into him and sent him tumbling over backward. His head smacked against the hardwood floor, and before he could clear the stars from his eyes, the security guard began pounding on him. Despite the stars, Harvath’s instincts immediately kicked in.

In two quick moves, he had gotten the better of his attacker and was on top of him, holding the man’s head and neck in a hammerlock. There was only one problem-Harvath had forgotten that the man had a partner.

Before he could free one of his arms to parry the blow away, the second security guard had landed a searing kick to his ribs. Harvath thought for a fraction of a second that he might be able to hold it in, but inevitably the air rushed from his lungs. His hammerlock collapsed, and his body crumpled to the floor as it heaved for oxygen. Somewhere off in the distance, he thought he heard Jillian scream as a round was chambered into an MP5 and its muzzle was pressed against the side of his head.

CAPITOL GRILLE

WASHINGTON, DC

Helen Remington Carmichael weaved her way through the crowded steak house and found DNC chairman Russell Mercer at his usual table behind a large porterhouse and an even larger glass of Archery Summit Pinot Noir. “Helen,” said the portly man as he rose to meet his unexpected guest. “How nice to see you.”

“Cut the crap, Russ. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two goddamn days.”

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“I can see that,” said Carmichael as she looked at the three attractive young women seated with him. “Let me guess. Polling?”

Mercer could smell a showdown coming, and the last thing he wanted was witnesses. “My tab should still be open at the bar, “He said as he stood and politely shooed the women from his booth. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re done here.”

Once they had filed past, Carmichael sat down and snapped her fingers at the nearest waiter. “Kettle One martini up, very dirty with lots of olives. “When the waiter had disappeared, Carmichael focused her ire back on Mercer. “Judging by the looks of your companions, they charge by the hour, so I’ll make this short.”

“I’m not going to even dignify that remark with a response,” replied the DNC chairman.

“Well, let’s see what you will dignify. I heard you had a very candid meeting at the White House with Chuck Anderson.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you told him I wouldn’t be on the Democratic ticket?”

“That’s what I told him.”

“How dare you?” she hissed.

Mercer leaned forward over the table, and his eyes bored right into hers. “Listen to me, Helen, and listen good. Your ball-busting routine might have charmed the voters of Pennsylvania, but you’re in the big leagues now, and we play by a different set of rules here. If you want the party’s nomination, you’ve gotta damn well earn it. You don’t just sashay up to my table, insult my guests, and demand I hand it to you on a silver platter.”

Carmichael was indignant. “And you don’t control the party, Russ. The ticket needs a strong vice-presidential candidate, and there isn’t anyone else out there as strong as I am.”

“You think so?” replied Mercer. “I happen to think Senator Koda of Maine could do a lot to help the ticket.”

“And if assholes had wings, this whole fucking town would be an airport,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Listen, Koda may be good, but I’m better, and you damn well know it.”