Brad Thor - Blowback

The most logical step was to have Marie call them up, explain who she was and what she wanted. But when the company informed her that their privacy policy prohibited them from providing anyone but the original customer with copies, Harvath knew he was going to have to come up with a better plan.

He had no desire to drive all the way to Toulouse to try to conduct another black-bag job to steal the information. Besides, being a satellite company, Spot Image would be a business that ran around the clock. It wouldn’t be empty in the middle of the night with just a couple of security guards sitting behind a desk the way Sotheby’s Paris annex was. There had to be someone Harvath knew outside his established intelligence contacts who could lean on Spot Image hard enough to get him what he needed. Suddenly, he knew just who that person was.

Harvath had met Kevin McCauliff several years back while he was still with the Secret Service. Both he and McCauliff had been members of an informal group of federal employees who trained together every year for the annual Washington, DC, Marine Corps Marathon.

McCauliff worked for the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency. Formerly known as the National Imagery and Mapping Agency, the NGA was a major intelligence and combat support agency of the Department of Defense. Though the NGA was very much a member of the intelligence community, Kevin McCauliff wasn’t what Harvath would refer to as an established intelligence contact. For a few weeks out of the year, they ran together. That was pretty much the extent of their relationship. The possibility that anyone would be watching for Harvath to make contact with Kevin McCauliff was beyond infinitesimal. And even better, McCauliff owed Harvath a favor.

The imagery analyst was one of the few senior people at the NGA who actually enjoyed the nightshift because, as he put it, that was when all the action happened. The NGA’s operator put Harvath through to McCauliff’s desk and the twenty-eight-year-old, two-hour and fifty-five-minute marathoner answered on the first ring. “Kevin, it’s Scot Harvath, “He said from among the boxes of paperwork scattered across Marie Lavoine’s office.

“Harvath?” replied McCauliff’s familiar voice from over four thousand miles away at the NGA’s headquarters in Bethesda, Maryland. “It’s almost three in the morning. The marathon isn’t until October. Don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over strategy already.”

“I never lose sleep over strategy, Kevin. It’s just a race, “He replied.

“I’ll make sure I remind you of that at mile twenty-five if we get dusted by another pack of young leathernecks this year.”

Harvath laughed. They had posted a very admirable time in last year’s marathon, but he was a Navy man, and it was gut-wrenching to get blown away in the final mile by a group of young Marines whom they had had a considerable lead over for the entire race. “Okay, maybe it’s more than just a race, but that’s not why I called.”

“What’s up?”

“Remember back when I was working the president’s Secret Service detail at the White House and got your family on one of the VIP tours?”

“Of course I do. My mother and sister still talk about it-and you, as a matter of fact. You swear to God nothing happened between you and Denise?”

McCauliff was like Sonny Corleone when it came to his kid sister, and no matter what Harvath ever told him, the guy never believed anything he said about the evening they spent together. “You’re never going to let it go, are you? We had one drink and I dropped her back at her hotel. I’ve told you that a million times.”

“I know, but it’s over three years ago, and she still talks about you. What would you think if you were in my position?”

“I’d think I need some therapy.”

It was McCauliff who laughed this time. “I’ll take it under advisement,” replied the NGA operative as he switched the phone to his other ear. “So what can I do for you?”

“Have you ever heard of a satellite imaging company called Spot Image?”

“Sure. We’ve even done some work with them. Why?”

“Do you have a relationship with anybody there?

McCauliff thought about it for a second. “I know a couple of people. Their U.S. Offices are just over in Chantilly, Virginia. What do you need?”

Having seen the clippings Marie had kept from several French newspapers about Bernard’s disappearance and the subsequent search and rescue effort, Harvath said, “I’m working a missing person’s case overseas right now. The man’s name was Bernard Lavoine, L-A-V-O-I-N-E. He disappeared with two other individuals over a year ago on a climbing expedition in the Alps. He ordered a lot of satellite imagery from Spot, and I’m hoping that it might help shed some light on where he was when he disappeared.”

“So why isn’t someone from DHS calling them?”

“Because the case is personal, Kevin. I’m not operating in an official capacity.”

McCauliff was quiet for several moments on his end of the line. “You swear nothing happened between you and my sister, right?”

“Jesus, Kevin. Yes, I swear.”

“Okay, “He responded, “give me a way to get in touch with you, and I’ll see what I can do.”

After giving him the number at the hotel, Harvath thanked Mc-Cauliff and hung up the phone. Jillian then looked at him and said, “Now what?”

“Now, we wait.”

HAMTRAMCK, MICHIGAN

America had been good to Kaseem Najjar, very good. His string of Muslim grocery stores and his mail-order food business were flourishing, his three children attended some of the United States ’ most prestigious universities, and the man was seen as a pillar of his largely Muslim community just outside Detroit. In America, anything was possible, and Kaseem had proven it.

A refugee from war-torn Sudan, he had the almost stereotypical rags-to-riches immigrant story. He had come to America with nothing but the clothes on his back, and over the course of twenty-five years he had built a dynasty catering to the tastes of those who longed for the foods of their homeland. When it came to the products Kaseem featured on his store shelves, in his mail-order catalog, or on his new web site, he discriminated against no one. His fortune had been built catering to all Muslims. Chili peppers from Indonesia, pistachios from Iran, dates from Libya, special bread flour from Iraq -Kaseem Najjar did not care how hard they were to import. He was a man who never took no for an answer, and that dogged determination was half of what had made him such a success.

The other half of Kaseem’s success came from the balance he struck in his life. Though he had never asked for such status, he was proud to be a role model for the Muslims of his community. On an almost weekly basis, a customer, a colleague, or a member of his mosque would ask him the predominant question that seemed to occupy the mind of every Muslim living in the United States -Where should my allegiance lie? With Islam or with America? Am I a Muslim first or an American?

Even though he’d been asked the same question thousands of times, he still treated each inquiry as if it were the first time he’d ever been asked. His response, though, was always the same. Instead of an answer, he would pose his own question. “If you had two children, “He would say, “who were both equally gifted, beautiful, and possessed of unlimited promise, to which would you devote all of your love?”

It was, of course a rhetorical question. In Kaseem Najjar’s mind, there was no reason to have to choose. This was America, and he could love both his adopted country and his Islamic faith equally. The two were not mutually exclusive as so many perverters of the Muslim religion would like the faithful to believe. His sage response often brought smiles and simple knowing nods from those who asked the question. It also did much to enhance the reputation of Kaseem Najjar as one of the wisest men in Hamtramck.