Blowback

NINETY-FOUR

After staying in DC long enough to see that the illness hadn’t spread, Harvath took off. The president had asked him to come by the White House for a visit so he could personally thank him, but Scot had politely declined. It was going to be a while before he was ready to have anything else to do with that town. In the meantime, he had plenty of vacation days he had never used and figured he was more than entitled to a nice long stretch of time off.

Lying in the hammock on his veranda with the surf pounding against the beach below, Harvath finished reading his day-old copy of the International Herald Tribune and set it down next to the ice bucket filled with cold bottles of Negro Modelo beer.

As was often the case with his line of work, the papers had picked up very little of what he had been involved with over the last couple of weeks. There was, though, the story of Senator Helen Carmichael’s resignation, which Scot read with particular satisfaction. Having been baited by Carmichael for weeks that something big was coming out of her office, the media immediately fell upon her story.

The fact that she cited wanting more time to spend with a husband who cheated on her, while she cheated on him, as well as a daughter who couldn’t stand either of her parents, as her reason for resigning only made the announcement that much more humorous. The bottom line, though, as far as Harvath was concerned, was that when it came to Senator Carmichael, justice had been done.

Before he left for his vacation, Gary Lawlor had filled him in on everything else.

Carmichael’s staff was taken by surprise by the news of her resignation and immediately scrambled to find other positions. Based upon a very powerful recommendation from the Oval Office, Neal Monroe was hired on at the DNC as Chairman Russ Mercer’s personal assistant.

The “other man” in the senator’s life, Brian Turner, tried to cut a deal with the CIA, but the powers that be at Langley had no intention of showing him any leniency whatsoever. He was currently being held in solitary confinement in a federal lockup pending his trial.

Gary detailed how the FBI, CDC, USAMRIID, and DHS had been able to avoid a major outbreak of the illness in the United States by sweeping in early and confiscating the mahleb spice deliveries sent by Kaseem Najjar in Hamtramck to all the Muslim-owned cash-heavy businesses on Chip Reynolds’s Riyadh warehouse list. With the antidote recovered in the bottling plant in Mecca, all those who had been infected were treated quickly enough to save their lives.

On the jihad front, Lawlor also shared that not only was the Islamic Institute for Science and Technology being dismantled and all of its members interrogated, but Saudi Crown Prince Abdullah had been making significant strides in ferreting out the conspirators involved in the attempted overthrow of his country. As they were discovered, they were tried and sent to Chop-Chop Square, the parking lot of Riyadh’s main mosque, where Saudi justice was publicly meted out each Friday. The first to go were the kingdom’s deputy intelligence minister and the two Wahhabi militants he had been so actively involved with. There was no word as to the condition or whereabouts of Abdullah’s son, Hamal. It was assumed that the Crown Prince had him somewhere under very heavy guard while he tried to figure out what to do with him.

As for Chip Reynolds, he was expected to make a complete and full recovery, at which point he planned on leaving his job with Aramco and relocating back to Montana for a full schedule of hunting, fishing, and deciding what the next phase of his life was going to be. The CIA tried to convince him to come back in-house and help them in their investigations into how Ozan Kalachka had been able to get his hands on classified DOD video, as well as the claim that the Saudis had nuclear weapons, but Reynolds turned them down. He had experienced enough international intrigue to last him two lifetimes.

Both the Whitcombs and Jillian Alcott were given special commendations at a private ceremony at the White House for their assistance in the investigation of the illness. Based on Harvath’s report, Jillian was also issued a ten-million-dollar check from the Rewards for Justice program for her role in helping to kill Khalid Sheik Alomari. The last anyone heard, she was planning on using the money to fund a full excavation of Hannibal’s elite guard from their icy grave just below the Col de la Traversette.

At last count, Kevin McCauliff had left three messages on Harvath’s voice mail wanting to get together to start talking strategy for the DC marathon, while Nick Kampos had faxed several Wal-Mart applications to Harvath’s office for him “just in case.”

While he knew he was a hell of a long way from being a greeter, Harvath couldn’t help but wonder how soon he’d be ready to return to his old way of life. Briefly, the words of Chip Reynolds came back to him, and he knew it wasn’t a coincidence that his singleness of purpose had resulted in an actual state of singleness. With thirty-six creeping up on him from around the corner, Harvath was still a young man, but he needed to make some decisions about what he wanted going forward.

Right at this moment, though, all he wanted was to open another beer and start in on the Jay Mac-Larty novel he had picked up from the lending library in the hotel lobby. After that, he could start thinking about his future. Actually, after that, he was going fishing, but it didn’t matter. He had plenty of time and could always think about things tomorrow. For the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, Scot Harvath was going to relax.

Opening his book, he was halfway through the first page when one of the desk clerks stepped onto his veranda. “Señor Harvath?”

“Yes?” he replied, laying the book on his chest.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. We have been trying to ring your room, but there has been no answer.”

“I know. I disconnected the phone.” Why he bothered, he had no idea. Claudia Mueller was the only person who knew where he was, and he’d already called her that morning to get an update on Horst Schroeder’s recovery.

“You have an important phone call,” said the clerk. “A gentleman has been most insistent. He says he is calling from your office. Would you like me to bring the phone out here to you?”

Harvath began to swing his legs out of the hammock but then thought better of it. “Tell him you couldn’t find me.”

“Excuse me, Señor?”

“Tell him I’m on the beach or I walked into town. Tell him whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“Yes, Señor,” replied the clerk as he exited the veranda and headed back up to the lobby.

Whatever it is, they’ll have to find a way to survive without me, thought Harvath. At least for the next two weeks.