Blowback

ELEVEN

What the hell do you mean, I’m fired?” said Harvath.

“I mean, you’re fired,” replied Charles Anderson, “and I don’t care how upset you are; this is the White House, and I will not tolerate that kind of language in this building.”

Harvath was never at a loss for words, but this time he honestly didn’t know what to say. He was absolutely stunned, and on top of that, he was completely exhausted. The debriefing had started the moment he touched down at Andrews Air Force Base, and the questions hadn’t stopped until a team of Secret Service agents came and whisked him away to the White House at nine o’clock this morning.

Before leaving Andrews, he had been given a few minutes to clean up. For the first time in his life, as he looked in the mirror of the men’s latrine, Harvath not only felt older than his thirty-five years, but thought he was starting to look it too. His constant workload had caught up with him. His bright blue eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with fatigue, and while the hair on his head was still light brown, traces of gray were starting to sneak into the stubble that covered his chin.

While in the SEALs, he had earned the code name Norseman, not for his rugged good looks, which were more Germanic than Norse, or because he fought like a fearsome Viking warrior, but rather because of the long string of Scandinavian flight attendants he had dated. As he splashed some cold water on his face and examined his haggard appearance, he wondered what he would look like in two or three more years if he kept going at this pace.

The one thing that didn’t seem to belie his age was his body, a testament to how hard he worked to keep himself in top physical condition. At five foot ten, and a solid one hundred seventy-five pounds, Harvath was in better shape and carried more muscle mass now than he had at twenty-five. The only effect that aging seemed to have on his body was that the pain that came with the invariable bumps and bruises of his job seemed to linger a lot longer than it used to. While an unfortunate byproduct of the way he lived his life, pain was one of the few things he felt he could exercise some semblance of control over. He had been taught time and again in the SEALs that pain was largely psychological.

What the mind can perceive, the body can achieve — and with that mantra playing on an endless loop in his mind, Harvath had forgone everything else in pursuit of his career, which now seemed to be coming to a screeching halt.

“I’m going to ask a stupid question,” said Harvath. “Does the president know I’m being dropped?”

Anderson reached into his drawer, removed a blue folder, and slid it across the desk to Harvath. “What he knows is that you’re resigning this morning.”

“So now I’m resigning?” replied Harvath as he slid the resignation letter out and read it over.

“You really screwed up in Baghdad,” continued the chief of staff. “The president didn’t like seeing you on TV.”

“Neither did I, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was a set-up.”

“I got that much from your debriefing report.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” replied Anderson, “is that you’ve created a firestorm with that takedown. A million and one fatwas have been issued against you, and every Muslim country on the planet wants to see you stand trial under Islamic law.”

“So?”

“So they’re not the only ones who want your head on a stake.”

“Who else does?”

“Senator Carmichael.”

“Carmichael?” scoffed Harvath. “I’m not going to have anything to do with that woman.”

“You don’t get a say in the matter.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“Scot, I warned you about your language—”

“Chuck, give me a fucking break here, would you? We’re talking about my career. If you release my name and face to the public, not only will I never work again, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. You said it yourself — a million and one fatwas have been issued against me. Every radical Muslim on the planet will be looking to book the perfect corner table in Paradise by taking me out.”

Anderson leaned forward over his desk and looked at Harvath. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong. This isn’t about you or your career. This is about the president, and I’m not about to see him go down in flames trying to cover for you — not with the election around the corner.”

“So you’re just giving me up?” replied Harvath in disbelief.

“We’re not giving you up.”

“What the hell would you call it then? Carmichael has nothing at this point. From what I’ve heard, the Iraqis rolled up that al-Jazeera crew before they could get a shot of my face. All they’ve got is the back of my head. Seems to me that’d be pretty hard for the senator to build a case on.”

“Do you think we’d be having this conversation if all Carmichael had was the back of your head? She’s got you dead to rights as the person doing the takedown.”

“How? How could she possibly have me?”

“She’s been talking to a lot of people.”

Harvath’s temper was starting to get the better of him. “People like who?”

“Like everybody. She’s on the Intelligence Committee, for Christ’s sake. She has contacts all over the community.”

“Just because she’s connected doesn’t mean she’s figured out I’m the guy in that footage.”

“She has.”

“How do you know?”

Anderson took a deep breath and tried to calm everything down. “I got a call this morning.”

“Carmichael called you?”

“No, someone else did. It was an old contact of mine — someone who’s in a position to hear things. He told me Carmichael has been asking a lot of questions about you.”

“What kind of questions?”

“She wanted to know about your time at the White House, why you left the Secret Service, and what you’ve been doing over at DHS. She even asked what the Apex Project was.”

This last revelation was too stunning for Harvath to even believe. The Apex Project was the code name for everything he did at the Department of Homeland Security. Only a handful of people even knew of its existence. Its secret budget was buried so deep and drawn from so many places it was supposed to be untraceable. How the hell had Senator Carmichael gotten her hands on it, or on any of this information? Harvath wondered. Somewhere they had a leak — a human leak who needed to be plugged, literally.

“Don’t you see what she’s trying to do?” continued Anderson. “She wants to burn the president, and she’s going to start the fire by torching you with the biggest flamethrower she can get her hands on.”

“Maybe she’s just trying to see what she can smoke out.”

“Come on, Scot. Face facts here. Out of all the people in this town she could possibly name, she names you? You’ve been made.”

Harvath wasn’t ready to give in so easily. “Chuck, until we’re absolutely certain, I don’t think we should—”

“We are absolutely certain,” responded the chief of staff, cutting Harvath short. “Your subpoena is going to be ready by three o’clock. She’s already made some vague statements to the press this morning that something big is coming down from the Hill. We need to put as much distance between you and the president as possible. Your desk at DHS has already been cleared out.”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“We’ve got to focus on the big picture.”

“So what exactly am I supposed to do?”

“First, I’d like you to sign this letter of resignation.”

“And second?” asked Harvath, mad as hell that no one seemed to be considering what he had done for this administration.

Anderson looked at him and replied, “You might want to start thinking about a new career.”