Brad Thor - Blowback

Reynolds sifted through the gear in the cargo area of his Land Cruiser and pulled out a small briefcase with Arabic writing on it used for carrying sections of the Koran known as a Juz that was perfect for holding Harvath’s weapon.

He had to hand it to the guy. Reynolds was definitely clever and apparently had thought of everything.

Once Harvath had changed into his dishdasha and Jillian into her full-length black abaya, complete with a long niqab that revealed only her eyes, they were ready to roll.

“Boy, are you a looker,” joked Reynolds as Jillian climbed into the backseat. “You’re going to break a lot of hearts around here with those eyes.”

Harvath wasn’t crazy about the man’s casual attitude and switched their conversation back to the matter at hand. “How do you know Gary Lawlor?”

Reynolds put the car in gear and headed for the air base’s main gate. “Gary and I were in Army Intelligence together. I joined the CIA about the same time he went into the bureau.”

“How’d you end up over here?”

“The Middle East was my area of operations. I learned how to speak Arabic and Farsi and actually used to enjoy it over here, Saudi Arabia in particular.”

“ Gary said you do security work for the Aramco company. A man with your background, I’m sure the CIA was sorry to see you go.”

“I’m sure they were, but I’d made a lifetime career out of serving my country. What I’m doing now, I’m doing strictly for the money, and I don’t see any shame in it. Why shouldn’t I be able to cash in on the few workable years I have left?”

The man had a good point. As they drove out the main gates of Riyadh Air Base, Harvath asked, “I can’t blame you, but do you ever miss it?”

“What? Working for the agency?”

Harvath nodded his head.

“In the beginning, yeah, I missed it. I missed it a lot, but I could see the writing on the wall. The company wasn’t going to hold onto me forever. What was I going to do, invest in a rocket-propelled wheelchair to chase down bad guys? If there’s one lesson I’ve learned, it’s that life is all about change, and stress comes from avoiding change. I think that’s the biggest lesson that came from losing my wife. She was extremely supportive of my career, but I knew she wasn’t crazy about it. The pay wasn’t super and the hours were horrible, but she understood I was in it for something more than that. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” replied Harvath. “I know what you mean.”

“Are you married?” asked Reynolds.

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

Harvath had to think about his answer a moment. “Not really.”

“Well, I’ll give you a free piece of advice. It’s something I wish somebody had told me a long time ago. The only love I ever had greater than my love for my country was my love for my wife. I wouldn’t be half the man I am today if it wasn’t for her. I see a lot of people in this game who have chosen their career over having a family, and I think that’s a bunch of crap. It’s a copout. Even though you’re working your ass off protecting life and liberty, it doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to the pursuit of happiness. The key, though, is in finding the right person.”

“There’s the understatement of the year,” said Harvath as he wondered if Dr. Phil knew somebody in Saudi Arabia was stealing his material.

“How old are you? About thirty-five?”

“About.”

“That’s when I got married, but I almost didn’t do it. It would have been a colossal mistake on my part not to. I guess what I’m saying is, don’t let your career stand in the way of what you want out of life.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Harvath, while what he was thinking was that his career was all he was aware of ever really wanting. He couldn’t see past it. He hadn’t even tried to until he was faced with what his life might be like without it. Reynolds was an interesting character. Unlike Rayburn, who’d been forced out of government service and into the private sector, Reynolds had chosen to leave and had done so on his own terms after a long and ostensibly satisfying life of service. What’s more, Reynolds had somehow been able to have a rich and fulfilling relationship-something Harvath had not yet been able to achieve. As he listened to the man speak, he wondered if maybe it wasn’t the women he had dated so much as it was he himself who had been sabotaging his relationships.

After a few more moments of reflection, Harvath realized he had allowed himself to be blown off course and once again tried to bring the conversation back around to the matter at hand. “Why don’t we talk about what it is we’re driving into.”

With time being of the essence, Reynolds avoided any roundabout side road routes, swung onto the main access road into Riyadh, and pinned the accelerator. “As far as what’s going on in the city itself?”

“Yeah.”

“You saw the ventilation that’s been added to the back of my truck?”

“That many holes are hard to miss,” answered Harvath. “You said something about the natives getting restless?”

“The mullahs have whipped a lot of the faithful, particularly the young men, into a frenzy.”

“Over what?” asked Jillian from the backseat.

“They claim that the Royal Family has ordered the police to crack down on all militants, even the moderate ones, in response to pressure from America.”

“There’s definitely some pressure being applied here,” said Harvath, “but it’s not from America.”

“That’s just it. The Royal Family seems to be playing right into this guy Kalachka’s hands. They’re arresting militants left and right.”

“Why?”

“They seem to believe that there’s a strong possibility a coup might be afoot.”

As they drove through the tracts of housing complexes outside Riyadh, Reynolds talked about the militants he had been keeping tabs on, why he had decided to follow them, and what he had learned. Then it was Harvath’s turn.

Over the next ten minutes, Harvath provided a brief summary of their investigation and everything they had been through. He finished by explaining why Reynolds hadn’t been able to find Khalid Alomari and what the man had been doing during his long absences from Saudi Arabia. When Harvath reached the point when the al-Qaeda assassin was killed, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw Jillian avert her eyes out the window.

“You did the right thing,” said Reynolds in an attempt to break the silence that had settled over them.

“I know,” said Jillian. “I know.”

“Let me ask you something else,” the man continued, “about this illness. Gary says that it has just shown up in the United States. How’d it get in and where are they seeing it?”

“As far as the FBI, DHS, CDC, and USAMRIID teams can figure out, it started with a Muslim food importer who shipped a package UPS from Hamtramck, Michigan, to Manhattan,” said Harvath. “Apparently, anyone who has come in contact with it has become infected, including the importer himself.”

Using the rearview mirror to look at Jillian, Reynolds asked, “Do you have any idea how the illness is spread?”

“No, we don’t. All we know is that according to the Aga Khan, immunity to the illness is transmitted somehow via water. A holy water of some sort that only Muslims have access to.”

“Only Sunni Muslims,” added Harvath. “Which is why Gary thought we could help each other out. You said that one of the things you discovered in that warehouse was bottled water, right?”

“Tons of it,” replied Reynolds. “The warehouse was enormous, and they had the stuff stacked floor to ceiling. There had to be over a million bottles in there, easy.”