CHAPTER 42
H
arvath had called ahead to alert Lara that people were going to begin showing up at the house. By the time he and Nicholas arrived, the Old Man’s vehicle was already parked in the drive.
Harvath’s home, as well as the surrounding acreage, had been deeded to him as a thank-you by a prior U.S. President. In exchange for his one-dollar-per-annum rent, Harvath was expected to maintain the historical property in a manner befitting and contributing to its stature.
Overlooking the Potomac and just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate sat Bishop’s Gate—a stubby, yet elegant stone church and rectory. During the Revolutionary War, it had been home to an outspoken Anglican priest and dedicated loyalist who had given aid and comfort to British spies. As a result, the church was attacked by the colonial army and left in ruins.
Bishop’s Gate remained that way until the late 1800s when it was taken over by the United States Navy, renovated, and repurposed as a covert training center for the Office of Naval Intelligence.
Eventually, the ONI outgrew the facility, and after a short stint storing dead files, it was relegated to “mothball” status.
Although not as upscale as some of the other properties in the Navy’s portfolio, its location was exceptional, as was its access to the water. The history of the estate, though, was what had won Harvath over.
On his very first exploration of the rectory attic, he had discovered a beautiful, hand-carved sign. Upon it, had been written the motto of the
Anglican missionaries:
TRANSIENS ADIUVANOS
.
I
GO OVERSEAS TO GIVE HELP
. It was as if it had been carved expressly for him. The moment Harvath had seen it, he had known that he was home.
It had taken some doing, but he had gotten the place into great shape. He was good with his hands and knew his way around a toolbox. Fixing things was becoming a lost art. When Lara visited with her son, Marco, Harvath liked to find projects for the two of them to do together. He had even gotten him his own little boy–sized tool set. It gave him no end of joy to see the sense of pride and accomplishment in Marco when he successfully completed one of their tasks together. He was a good boy.
Entering the house, Harvath and Nicholas passed the Anglican missionary sign in the entry hall and walked toward the sound of voices in the kitchen. Argos and Draco trotted ahead. Nicholas spent a lot of time at Bishop’s Gate, and the dogs knew their way around. It had become like a second home to them.
Carlton was seated at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of him. Lara was leaning against the kitchen counter smiling, a cup of coffee in her hand and something simmering on the stove behind her.
“That smells good,” he said, kissing her.
“Arroz Carreteiro. Your favorite.”
Both of Lara’s parents were amazing cooks and they had passed on their love of cooking to her. Arroz Carreteiro, which roughly translated into
Rice Wagoner
or
Cart Riders
, was a popular dish from southern Brazil. Meat, rice, tomato, onions, and spices—it was perfect for this time of year.
Grabbing a coffee cup, he looked at Nicholas, who nodded. After pouring coffee for each of them, he suggested to Carlton that they walk back to his study.
It was one of his favorite rooms in the house. Here he stored his vast library in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. There was an old desk, a large fireplace, a leather sofa, and two comfortable side chairs. He motioned for his guests to find a place to sit while he looked for his remote and powered on the television.
“Have you heard about the new cases?” Harvath asked.
Carlton nodded. “But that’s not the worst part of it.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“The dead ones, the ones who bled out, all of them travelled to Saudi Arabia for the Hajj. The bad news is that hospital emergency rooms, minute clinics, and family doctors across numerous cities are now reporting a surge in patients who haven’t travelled outside the United States, but who are presenting with high fevers and other symptoms believed to be consistent with the initial stages of African Hemorrhagic Fever.”
“Damn it,” Harvath replied.
His instincts to send Palmer to stock up on supplies had been well founded. Though he always kept his pantry stocked and would be able to take care of a certain number of visitors for an extended period during an emergency, nobody in their right mind would pass up getting one last crack at the stores before they were overrun and stripped bare. All you had to do was ask anyone in a hurricane zone whether it was better to be two minutes early to the grocery store in advance of a storm, or two minutes late.
“There’s something else,” the Old Man added. “And it doesn’t get repeated outside this room, but President Porter has developed a fever. Out of an abundance of caution, he has been transported to Bethesda Naval Hospital for observation.”
“He said it was just a cold,” Harvath replied. “Has he had contact with anyone who recently travelled to Mecca?”
“He’s the President. He has contact with a lot of people.”
“Including us.”
The Old Man knew what he was suggesting—not that they had potentially infected Porter, but that he may have infected them.
“All the more reason we need to get moving,” said Carlton. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Let’s start by you giving me an update on what happened in Winchester.”
Harvath walked the Old Man through all of it, with Nicholas filling in where appropriate.
At one point, Carlton stopped him and asked, “What do you think this Helena woman was erasing from that memory card?”
“If I had to guess,” said Nicholas, “I’d say passwords. Damien is a smart man. We should assume he changes his passwords often.”
“But her assignment was to get his password. Period. Once she had done that, why didn’t she send it to Mordechai and pull up stakes?”
“Again, if I had to guess, I’d say she had been accessing Damien’s computer from early on in the operation. Whenever he changed his password, she’d have to recapture it in order to get back in.”
“For what, though?” Carlton pushed. “All the Mossad wanted was the password. They didn’t ask her to extract anything from the man’s laptop.”
Nicholas put up his hands. “I’m the zeros and ones guy. I don’t attempt to assess or explain human motivations.”
“Bullshit, Nick. Stop screwing around. Why do you think she kept hitting his hard drive?”
There was only one answer that came to his mind. “Money.”
Slowly, Carlton nodded. He liked that answer. It was simple. More important, it made sense. “Okay, so let’s say it was money. How does access to Damien’s hard drive make her money?”
“Without seeing his hard drive, I can’t tell you.”
“As we don’t have access to it, why don’t you take a guess.”
The little man shrugged. “I can think of a million ways to monetize what might be on the personal hard drive of a man like Pierre Damien. Was there anything that could be used to blackmail him or other powerful figures? Were there any soon-to-be-released reports about drugs Damien’s pharmaceutical companies were working on? How about the status of pipeline or drilling agreements for his oil or natural gas companies?”
“Okay,” said the Old Man, “but if you know, like Helena, that Damien has something massive planned, something he hopes is going to totally reshape the world, do you really care about some new Alzheimer’s drug, some pipeline deal with Kurdistan, or some nude island frequented by some second-rate British royal?”
“No,” Nicholas answered.
“Why?”
“First of all, if there was any blackmail material on the laptop, she should have been able to find it on her first pass through. That leaves financial material, and you’re right. If Damien is going to crash the world as we know it, there’s no value in knowing about some miracle Alzheimer’s drug or pipeline deal before it happens.”
“Unless,” said Harvath.
Both Nicholas and Carlton looked at him.
“Unless what?” the Old Man asked.
“Unless her goal was to profit
from
the crash.”
“How?”
“Suppose the Mossad was right,” Harvath continued, “but only half right. Suppose Helena did want out, but that instead of Pierre Damien being her golden ticket, he unknowingly helped her pack her parachute?”
“Meaning what?” Carlton replied. “She was funneling cash from his accounts?”
“No, too easy to get caught. Let’s assume she’s smarter than that.”
“If she was smarter than that, she would have stopped being a honey trap for the Mossad a long time ago.”
Harvath held up his hand. “Damien is a lot of crazy things, but we all agree he isn’t stupid. He’s also a successful businessman—a businessman sitting on the biggest piece of insider information ever. He knows the exact date the world is going to end. Why in God’s name wouldn’t he play that?”
The Old Man’s eyes widened. “Short the market?”
“There are lots of things he could be up to. Helena, though, would have to know where and when to place her bets. She’d need to get out before everything collapsed. That might be why she has been accessing Damien’s laptop. She’s trying to catch a falling knife.”
“Good way to feather your nest if you were planning to leave the Mossad and disappear.”
“Speaking of which,” Harvath replied as his driveway alarm chimed and one of the outdoor camera feeds popped up on his TV. “Sloane’s here with Mordechai.”
“What should we do with him?”
“I think we should read him in on everything we’ve got,” said Harvath.
“Everything?”
He nodded. “All of it.”
CHAPTER 43
M
ordechai accepted a cup of tea and moved a bit closer to the fire Harvath had started for him in the fireplace.
As the wood sizzled and popped, he listened to Harvath lay everything out. When he had finished, the first thing that came to mind to say was “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Harvath replied. “All we ask is that you don’t broadcast to your people that President Porter has been taken to Bethesda. If that gets out, it will cause a panic.”
“When it comes to causing a panic, I think there are one or two other things you should be more concerned about.”
“And we are. We just don’t want to contribute to a deteriorating situation.”
“I understand,” Mordechai said. “In the event the President is unable to execute his duties, who takes over? The Vice President, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And if the Vice President happened to become ill?”
“Then the Speaker of the House followed by the President pro tempore of the Senate,” Harvath replied.
“And then cabinet members,” Carlton added. “Secretary of State, all the way down to the Secretary of Homeland Security.”
“Which is where Linda Landon works,” said Mordechai.
Harvath had his laptop open on his desk, and he pulled up the United States Presidential line of succession to show him.
“But if the Vice President is number one,” he said, “Homeland Security is all the way down here at the bottom at number seventeen. And that’s for the current, acting secretary. Not only would he have to fall ill, but so would several other people at DHS before she could ever hope to ascend to the secretary position.”
Mordechai shrugged. “If the virus moves fast enough.”
It was almost too crazy to believe. Sickening everyone above you in order to seize the Oval Office? But maybe there was something to it. Palace coups had used poison throughout history, so why not disease? Was that why Damien was rubbing elbows with all the backbencher bureaucrats? Was it more than just securing the reins of power in the White House? Was it a means by which to control the Federal Government from tip to tail?
It all came back to how Damien intended for the survivors of African Hemorrhagic Fever to actually survive. If they could figure that out, then maybe they could reverse engineer the plot.
Harvath looked at Carlton. “Who do we have at Homeland Security that we can trust?”
“I can think of one or two people, but it depends on the task. Are you looking for background on Linda Landon? Interoffice chatter, that kind of thing?”
He shook his head. “No. Word might leak and like we said, she’ll run to Damien. Right now, I’m more concerned with the people above her. Specifically, I want to know if any of them are sick.”
The Old Man thought about it for a second and then said, “I have someone I can call.”
“Good. Do it,” Harvath replied. Turning to Mordechai, he asked, “What do you need?”
Tapping the laptop he had brought in with him, he said, “WiFi access.”
“No problem. Anything else?”
“I’d also like my phone back so that I can call my people and bring them up to speed.”
Harvath looked at Carlton and the Old Man nodded. “Done.”
He called to Sloane and asked her to bring Mordechai’s cell phone in. He then created a hotspot, firewalled off from all of his devices, and gave the man a temporary password.
As Carlton stepped out of the room to call his contact at DHS, Nicholas asked, “What do you need from me?”
“How long would it take you to get inside that Main Core database and give me a thirty-thousand-foot view?”
The little man looked down at his chronograph, activated the stopwatch, and said, “Let’s find out.”
Sliding off the couch, he picked up his coffee, whistled for the dogs, and headed for the front door. He worked better without other people around, and the van had everything he needed.
Now, the only person without a designated assignment was Harvath. That didn’t mean, though, that he didn’t have something to do. He had a huge task in front of him—and it began in the kitchen.
He quietly asked Sloane to remain in the study with Mordechai. He also asked her to use her phone to covertly record any conversations the Israeli conducted over his cell phone. Harvath’s Hebrew wasn’t good enough to help translate them later, but Nicholas would have access to a program that could do it. With Sloane given her marching orders, Harvath went to speak with Lara.
She had the TV on. She was a news junkie like him. Even if she were not, today was the kind of day where everyone began turning on television sets, looking to pick up the latest information, wondering if the breaking news was going to impact them. Harvath knew that it was going to impact everyone.
“Not good,” she said, nodding toward the TV.
“I know,” he replied. “We need to talk.”
Lara wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and poured herself a cup of coffee. Raising the pot, she looked to see if Harvath wanted some.
“Please,” he said with a nod.
Lara brought it over to the kitchen table, warmed up his cup, and sat down next to him.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
“Bad.”
“How the hell are you right in the middle of it?”
He smiled.
“I’m worried about Marco,” she continued. “And my parents.”
“So am I. That’s what I want to talk with you about. I have made arrangements for you all to be taken someplace safe.”
“Where?”
“Alaska.”
“
Alaska?”
Lara repeated.
“Good friends of mine have a fishing lodge there. It’s in the middle of nowhere. He’s a SEAL and his wife is very squared away. They know what they’re doing. You’ll all be safe there.”
“What about you?”
“Unfortunately, I have to stay behind. But I’m going to be okay. I’m going to put Nicholas in a backpack and stuff my pockets with bacon so the dogs don’t leave my side.”
Lara attempted a smile, her eyes cast toward the floor.
He raised her chin until she was looking at him. “It’s going to be okay,” he repeated.
“Does it have to be you?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
She turned away from him, but he gently turned her back. Her eyes were moist. He had never seen her cry.
“Everything is going to be okay,” he said again.
“Come with us.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Porter has the whole government at his beck and call. Scientists, the military. Let’s just go. Let’s outrun it.”
He pulled her to him and held her tighter than he had ever held her before.
They stayed like that for several minutes. It was long enough for their breathing to fall into synch. Finally, she pushed away from him.
As she did, she hit him right in the center of his chest as hard as she could and said, “Fuck you.”
She was a cop, tough. She knew how to make it hurt, and it did.
“
Oof,”
Harvath groaned.
She stared at him, angry.
“Fuck you,”
he teased. “I haven’t learned that one yet. Is it Brazilian Portuguese or
Portuguese
Portuguese?”
Lara smiled. This time, it was genuine.
“You need to understand that I’m doing this for you. For you and for Marco,” he said. “And for your parents.”
It had felt hollow as it took shape in his mind, but as soon as it touched his lips, he realized that he meant it.
“There isn’t anybody else who can do this,” he continued. “Not now. Nicholas, me, Reed, Sloane, Chase, we’re it. Look,” he said as he directed her attention back to the TV. “People are already dying, and it kills me that I couldn’t help them. The only thing I can do right now is try to protect everyone else.”
“But you can’t protect everyone.”
“I can try. I need to.”
Stroking the side of his cheek, she leaned in and kissed him. “I love you too,” she said.
Harvath pulled her into him and kissed her back. Closing his eyes, he drank her in—the way she felt, the way she kissed, the way she smelled. He tried to freeze everything about her; he tried to create a snapshot that would always be there whenever he needed her.
He didn’t want the moment to end. But it did when Carlton soundlessly slipped into the kitchen and cleared his throat.
Disentangling himself from Lara, Harvath looked up.
“I just got off the phone with my contact at Homeland Security,” the Old Man said. “It’s bad.”