Page 36

W ASHINGTON , D.C.

H arvath had managed to get several hours of sleep and felt somewhat refreshed. After taking a shower and shaving, he put on a navy suit with a light blue shirt and, once again, no tie.

Downstairs in the kitchen, he turned on the TV while he started making a late lunch before heading into D.C.

for his meeting with Russ Gaines. The story of a shoot-out and a stack of dead bodies being found at the home of the former National Security Advisor was playing on every local channel, as well as the cable news outlets.

He decided to give McGee a call and check in on how Rogers was doing.

“He’s fine,” the ex–CIA director stated. “A little concerned about what all the media coverage may do to his resale value, but other than that, no complaints.”

“I just turned on my TV,” said Harvath. “When did it break?”

“A couple hours ago.”

“Anything I need to be worried about?”

“Not at the moment,” McGee replied. “They’re asking the public to contact Fairfax County PD if they have information related to the events.

I’m sure their phones are jammed with crackpots from coast to coast offering up all sorts of conspiracy theories.

By tonight those nuts will be all over the internet linking Rogers with MLK, JFK Jr., and the Hamburglar in a covert plot to use Terminator -style robots to overthrow Cuba. ”

Harvath smiled. “Sounds like the Ambassador might have bigger problems than just his home’s resale value.”

“We should have a serious talk about his home and his problems. When will you be back?”

“My meeting with Gaines is at three thirty. As soon as it’s over, I’m going to hit the road. Hopefully, I’ll get a jump on the traffic. But with that said, I’ll need to run a few SDRs to make sure he’s not having me followed.”

“Understood. We’ll see you when we see you.”

Disconnecting the call, Harvath finished making his lunch, and ate. Then, after packing clothes and additional gear in Haney’s Bronco, he headed to D.C.

The headquarters of the Secret Service were half a mile due east of the White House.

But what Harvath had always found more interesting was that the headquarters was also only three blocks from Ford’s Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln was assassinated.

More interesting still was that, allegedly, on the day that Lincoln was shot, he had signed the approval for the Secret Service’s creation.

Just as it had been odd for Harvath to return to the Carlton Group offices, it also felt odd to return to the Secret Service.

His recruitment from the SEALs to help bolster counterterrorism protections at the White House felt like ages ago.

It had also taken him down a career path he had never seen coming.

That was part of why it felt odd being back. The Secret Service had marked a major shift in his life.

The bigger reason it felt strange being back was that he had come to lay a very serious allegation at the feet of an old friend. Until this morning, disloyal and dishonorable were not terms he could have ever imagined using to describe Russ Gaines. But all of that was about to change.

Entering the building, with its soaring glass atrium, he proceeded through security screening before checking in at the main desk and being issued a pass, which he hung around his neck via a lanyard.

He was then told to take a seat in the marble-clad lobby and that someone would be down to retrieve him shortly.

That someone turned out to be Russ’s assistant, Kyle Marshall, a short man in his late twenties with an overeager manner.

Showing Harvath to one of the elevators, he said, “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well.”

“Me? I’m nobody, honestly. But you’re a legend. Do you know how many agents dream of saving a president’s life? Basically all of them. Even the ones who don’t do protective work. And you not only saved a president, but you also saved his daughter.”

“Two different days,” Harvath replied with a polite smile.

“Still,” said Marshall, as the elevator arrived and he motioned for Harvath to go ahead of him. Scanning his key card, he continued his praise as they rode upstairs. “And then everything that happened two days ago at the Naval Observatory and the Norwegian ambassador’s residence? Come on. Amazing.”

Harvath had never been comfortable with such fulsome praise, but Marshall seemed like a decent person and so he continued to remain polite. “I think any other Secret Service agent would have done the same thing. That’s what they train us for, right?”

It took Marshall a minute to realize that Harvath was including him in the “us.” When it clicked, he stood up a bit taller and nodded in agreement. “That is what they train us for.”

Finally, the elevator opened and Marshall walked him over to a set of ballistic glass doors, laser-engraved with the Secret Service logo. Swiping his card again, he led Harvath down a long, carpeted hallway to a cluster of executive offices.

Gesturing to a seating area, Marshall told him to make himself comfortable. Gaines was on a call but would be out shortly.

He was in the middle of asking Harvath if he wanted coffee when his phone chimed. Looking down at the text, Marshall quickly excused himself and disappeared through a secure door, which Harvath assumed led to Russ’s office. Why he had departed so hastily, however, was anyone’s guess.

Harvath had only been there for about two minutes when the same door was thrown forcefully open.

He looked up to see Gaines, a powerfully built man in his mid-fifties, his reddish-blond hair more gray than blond now, and his complexion ruddier than he remembered, step out.

Something was happening. And whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“Come with me,” he ordered.

Standing up, Harvath asked, “What’s going on?”

Gaines shook his head. “Not here,” he replied. “In the TOC.”

They walked down another hallway and quickly arrived at a wall of small, secure lockers.

Harvath didn’t need to be told what to do.

Removing his cell phone, he put it inside one of them, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

Gaines then swiped his card at another secure door and led him into a large tactical operations center.

Flat-panel monitors lined the walls. Digital clocks with bright red numbers broadcast the time across the United States and cities around the world.

The overhead lighting was dimmed to make it easier to watch the images on the monitors.

It was a hive of activity as agents clicked furiously away at keyboards, worked communication equipment, and shuttled between workstations.

As they entered, Gaines shouted, “Let’s get video up! Now!”

Harvath still had no idea what was going on. But as soon as traffic camera footage started coming online, he recognized the Dulles Access Road and what looked like a horrible multicar accident.

But accident didn’t seem to be the right word. Too many of the cars were on fire and spaced too far apart to have all collided with each other.

“What the hell is this?”

“One of our motorcades has come under attack.”

Instantly, Harvath’s mind went to S?lvi. “Which motorcade? Who was in it?”

Gaines didn’t pull any punches. “The Norwegian and Dutch prime ministers.”

Harvath couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. “When?”

“It just happened. Multiple RPGs.”

RPGs? In the D.C. suburbs? The nation’s capital had spun completely out of control.

“What’s their status?”

“Multiple dead and wounded. We have CAT teams en route,” said Gaines, referring to the Secret Service’s Counter Assault Teams. “Local law enforcement, fire, and EMS are also on their way.”

Harvath beat back the urge to go get his phone and text S?lvi. It looked like an absolute shitstorm. The last thing she would need at this moment was him blowing up her phone.

One of the agents monitoring the encrypted radio traffic from the site of the attack piped up and said, “Agent down. Repeat, agent down. Active sniper on scene.”

“Where, precisely?” Gaines demanded. “Do we have a fix on the shooter’s location?”

“Somewhere in the trees on the south side of the Dulles Access Road.”

A secondary attack . Harvath’s heart all but stopped in his chest.

It was chilling to stand there, less than twenty miles away, not knowing if S?lvi was alive or dead and not being able to impact the outcome either way. He felt helpless, and helplessness was not a word in his personal vocabulary.

Making it even more difficult, there were no air assets yet on scene.

The only eyes they had were the traffic cams along the access road and the live feeds streaming from the Secret Service dashcams. It was impossible to have a full, 360-degree view of the battlespace as it were.

He would have given anything just to have Nicholas’s two Dragonflies overhead.

As reports of sniper fire continued to be radioed in, Harvath began to formulate a plan. He couldn’t sit here in the TOC, not while S?lvi was somewhere in the middle of that fight and might need him. It would take forever to get there via car, but he had to try.

He was about to tell Gaines he was leaving when Marshall entered the TOC, got his boss’s attention, and said, “HMX-1. Ten minutes out. South Lawn.”

Flashing his assistant the thumbs-up, Gaines looked at Harvath, who understood what had just been said. “HMX-1” was Marine Helicopter Squadron One, the Marine Corps unit responsible for transporting the President and other dignitaries by helicopter.

With assets five miles away at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, all it would have taken was one call to the White House’s Military Office to arrange for a speedy pickup on the South Lawn.

The fact that the Secret Service didn’t have its own helicopters was yet another failing by Congress, yet also a fight for another day.

Nodding toward the door, Gaines said, “We’ve got an extra seat. Want it?”

Harvath didn’t need to be asked twice.

He followed Gaines out of the TOC, to the elevators, and down to the lobby, where a fully geared-up, six-man Quick Reaction Force was waiting. They handed both Gaines and Harvath chest rigs with hard plates and large patches front and back, which read POLICE–SECRET SERVICE .

Outside at the curb, two black Secret Service SUVs, their lightbars flashing, were ready to go. After loading up, they took off.

By the time the VH-60N White Hawk helicopter flared and touched down on the South Lawn, Harvath, Gaines, and the QRF team were in position.

Though it hardly could have been part of the fast-moving calculus, having a presidential helicopter—with its distinct green paint job and white top—rush to the location of where Americans and European allies had come under attack was a smart move.

It showed a White House managing the situation, committing any and all resources necessary, as rapidly as possible.

Everyone climbed aboard and strapped in. As the heavy door slid closed, the pilots powered up the twin turboshaft engines and the long black rotors chopped at the hot, humid air, lifting the helo quickly off the ground.

Banking hard to the west, Harvath watched the White House disappear beneath them.

And as it did, he prayed to God, asking for just one thing—that when they arrived, he would find S?lvi alive.