Apostle (10 page)

T
here was gunfire on the way back to the ISS compound, but it wasn’t directed at Baba G’s Land Cruiser. It was small-arms fire, referred to in military parlance as
saf,
and as best they could tell it had come from a block or two away. Too close for comfort and even more unsettling when Gallagher explained that saf, RPG, and suicide bombing attacks were on the upswing in the Afghan capital.

Back at the compound, Harvath grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen and then commandeered Baba G’s room so that he could send secure emails and make a few phone calls. As he waited for his laptop to power up, he noticed that Gallagher’s trash can had been emptied and that the bottles from the night before had been removed.

While his browser connected with the Internet, Harvath took a long slug of water, glanced at his watch, and did the math. It was nearing 5:00
P.M
. in Kabul, which meant it was almost 8:30
A.M
. back in D.C. He forced the jet lag from his mind and focused on the work he needed to get done.

Pulling out his encrypted BlackBerry, he texted a colleague based in D.C. with the message “Need help. Can u talk?”

Three minutes later he received a response. “Life/death? In a meeting.”

Harvath shook his head. CIA was obsessed with meetings. If their management showed even half as much interest in supporting the excellent people it had in the field and green-lighting operations to nail bad guys, America would be a much safer place. Harvath texted back a one-word response—“Yes.” He was fairly certain the free world would continue to survive if his contact stepped out of a meeting for a few minutes.

Less than sixty seconds later, his BlackBerry rang. Activating the call, Harvath raised the phone to his ear and said, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I think the CIA is trying to kill me,” replied a voice from Northern Virginia.

Harvath laughed. “Death by PowerPoint?”

“Worse,” said the voice. “Mandatory sensitivity training. They’re killing us with kindness.”

Only CIA
, thought Harvath,
would waste time and money putting its paramilitary operatives through sensitivity training.
If it wasn’t so sad, it might actually have been funny. “My tax dollars at work.”

“Look at it this way,” the voice stated. “When I eventually kill bin Laden, I’ll be able to do it while embracing all of the differences between our cultures that make us both unique and special.”

“Not if I get to him first.”

This time, it was Aydin Ozbek’s turn to laugh. Harvath’s CIA contact was a part of the Agency’s Special Activities Division, which was responsible for counterterrorism activities. He and Harvath had gotten to know each other the previous summer when cases they were working on intersected.

Harvath had a lot of respect for Ozbek, who refused to let the CIA tie him up in bureaucratic knots. If management wouldn’t cooperate, the man wasn’t afraid to do what needed to be done, even if it meant coloring outside the lines. Ozbek represented not only what was right about CIA, but what direction it needed to take to go from being a Cold War era relic that many referred to as the “Failure Factory” to a modern terrorism-fighting machine.

It went without saying that Ozbek’s style didn’t exactly endear him to his superiors. The only reason he still had a job at the CIA after breaking multiple laws in pursuit of a nest of Islamic radicals operating on American soil last summer was that Harvath had asked the president to intervene on his behalf. Now that the CIA had a bean counter with no intelligence experience in charge and a president in the Oval Office who knew even less about the intel community, Ozbek needed to tread carefully.

Harvath and Ozbek were similar in many ways, in particular the love they held for their country and the animosity they possessed toward its enemies, especially Islamic fundamentalists.

Even if Harvath hadn’t saved Ozbek’s job, the two would have been good friends. The job-saving part of the relationship did, however, mean that Harvath had a lot of bonus points on his side of the board.

“There’s a bit of a delay on the line,” said Ozbek. “Where are you?”

“Kabul,” replied Harvath. “How’d you get out of your sensitivity training so fast?”

“I told my supervisor you were a North Korean arms source I was developing and that I needed to take your call. You should have seen the look on the guy’s face.”

“Knowing you, his BS detector was probably pegging into the red.”

“On the contrary,” said Ozbek. “I could hear the gears grinding away in his mind as he tried to figure out how to work it into his next report and take credit for it. So what are you doing in Kabul, or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I’m looking for something.”

“Something or
someone
?”

“Both,” said Harvath, “but I need the
something
before I can get my hands on the
someone.
”

Ozbek understood Harvath’s need to watch what he said over the phone and didn’t press him any further. “How can I help?”

“How deep is the talent on your Afghan desk?”

“Pretty deep.”

“Any people there from the Soviet days?” asked Harvath.

Ozbek thought about it a moment. “I think they’ve hired one or two of the retired guys back as private contractors.”

“Can you get to a computer in the next few minutes?”

“I’m going to miss out on the trust fall, but if I have to, I have to.”

“I’ll drop something in the box,” said Harvath.

“Roger that. How soon to do you need a reply?”

“ASAP.”

“All right,” said Ozbek. “I’m on it.”

Harvath thanked him and disconnected the call. He then opened the web-based email account he and Oz used to communicate and left a note for him in the draft folder.

What he wanted to know was what kind of intel the CIA had developed on the old Soviet military base where Mustafa Khan was being held, as well as the hospital across the road. Hopefully the CIA had turned the Soviet embassy inside out as the last of the Russians were rolling out of Kabul and maybe, just maybe, they had come up with something that he could use.

The next thing Harvath had to do was prepare a report for Stephanie Gallo. She had no background in intelligence or national security and Harvath had to assume that no matter how badly she wanted her daughter back, any correspondence he exchanged with her could end up being compromised.

Before leaving, he had explained that his communications would be purposefully vague and that there would be periods when he would not be able to send her any reports at all. He wasn’t in Afghanistan to trade emails with her, he was there to rescue her daughter.

Harvath knew, though, that despite her tough exterior, Stephanie Gallo was still a mother, and like any parent, she was undoubtedly agonizing over her daughter’s situation. When Harvath thought of Stephanie Gallo, it was her role as parent that he tried to picture.

Drawing from the code words they had developed, he dashed off a quick message.

He debated adding an assurance that he felt good about the prospects of getting Gallo’s daughter back alive, but he decided against it. He hadn’t been hired to hold her hand. He had been hired to get results. In the end, that’s all anyone would care about.

Logging out of that email account, Harvath switched over to gmail and found a message waiting from Tracy. In it was a picture she had taken of Bullet lying by the front door of the cottage.

Harvath smiled. Tracy was a wonderful woman. He sent her a reply, logged out of the account, and opened Google Earth to see what kind of open-source imagery was available for their target locations.

The imagery was somewhere between one to three years old yet fairly detailed. All the same, Harvath wasn’t happy with what it showed him. At least three of the buildings, and possibly more, had brand-new roofs and displayed other signs of having been upgraded. It was very possible that the base was being used as more than just the Afghan president’s private detention complex.

Before they did anything, they were going to need to get a look at those facilities. And the closer, the better.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

T
hirty-two-year-old Elise Campbell lived in a tiny apartment on Massachusetts Avenue between Sixth and Seventh. It was a “junior” one-bedroom with an efficiency kitchen, a narrow bathroom, and a living/sleeping space separated by a sleek divider that only went three-quarters of the way to the ceiling.

Lining the walls were black and white reprints of famous French photographs. Stainless-steel shelving held an assortment of hip periodicals, as well as a commemorative coffee-table book about the New York Yankees, and a small entertainment center housed a flatscreen TV, a DVD player, and an iPod docking station.

All told, the apartment looked more like a trendy hotel suite than a space someone actually called home. It was obvious that Elise Campbell didn’t spend much time there. The only personal touch was a collection of framed photos of friends and family along the windowsill.

She had grown up in the eastern portion of the Commonwealth of Virginia often referred to as the Tidewater region. Her father had been a Virginia Beach police officer and had risen through the ranks to become a detective, as had his father, and his grandfather. Even Elise’s great-great grandfather had been a law enforcement officer in the Tidewater area. She was the fifth generation of Campbells to continue the tradition, which was significant not only because she was the first Campbell woman to join the VBPD, but because both of her brothers had chosen careers in the corporate world. One had become a banker and the other a stockbroker.

Many believed Elise had followed the distinguished Campbell tradition to please her father and grandfather, but the answer was more simple than that. For Elise, as it had been for the Campbells who had come before her, law enforcement was a calling. She believed in justice and fair play. She believed in protecting those who were too weak to protect themselves, and she also knew that no matter how hard the police worked, they would never rid the world completely of evil. There would always be a need for cops because evil would always need to be kept at bay.

Elise also believed that she would touch more lives, and affect them for the better, than either of her brothers would in their chosen fields. She didn’t see that as a knock on them and what they had chosen to do. Their careers were their callings and she respected them for having the guts to break with what the family had expected them to do.

Though she would never make the kind of money her brothers did, her compensation wasn’t measured by a paycheck. It was measured by the sense of satisfaction and fulfillment she got from performing her job well and from the distinguished men and women she served alongside.

Her decision to switch to the Secret Service hadn’t been easy, but it was one of the smartest career moves she had ever made. While she loved her colleagues and her job with the Virginia Beach PD, she never felt she’d make a good detective like the Campbells before her, and the pressure from her father and grandfather to follow their career track was just too intense.

Though she didn’t see herself as a detective and wanted to get away from the pressure from Dad and “Pop” to be one, she also didn’t want to entirely give up a career in law enforcement. Simply put, she loved being a cop. Oddly enough, it was her chief, Jack Jarett, who had encouraged her to consider a career in federal law enforcement.

Jarett had an uncanny ability to read people, and he had seen early on that regardless of generations of Campbell service to the VBPD, Elise wasn’t going to stay in Virginia Beach forever. It was obvious that she wanted to do more and see more than just the Tidewater.

As a graduate of the FBI’s NEIA program and a member of the Major City Chiefs organization, Chief Jarett had a lot of contacts in D.C. Though he practically had to threaten to fire Elise Campbell to get her to pursue the leads he had set up for her, she interviewed with the FBI, the DEA, and the Secret Service.

All three organizations invited her back for follow-up interviews and all three subsequently offered her positions, but it was the Secret Service that appealed to her the most.

While Pop had been supportive of her career move, her father couldn’t hide his disappointment. And though he might have considered Elise’s decision abandonment, her brothers congratulated her for following her own desires.

She knew they were full of it. With her gone from the Virginia Beach PD, they could both feel better about having bucked the family tradition as well. It made no difference that she was still in law enforcement. As far as they were concerned, she was on their side now and their father could not use her as a wedge anymore. She became a means for her brothers to magnify their independence from their father, and he blamed her for everything he felt had gone wrong with their family, including its geographical breakdown, with one brother in New York, another in Chicago, and her even in nearby D.C.

Campbell didn’t care for being the family’s emotional football, and even though she loved them, she had grown somewhat estranged over the past couple of years. With all of the travel and long hours in the Service, it was easy to put any semblance of a personal life on hold. It didn’t mean she didn’t want to have one, it just seemed as though there wasn’t time for anything more than casual relationships.

She knew that also bothered her father. Not that he was aware of the kind of casual relationships she was having, but she wasn’t married and neither were her brothers. Her father saw it as yet another example of the unraveling of America and indicative of how the nation was committing cultural suicide.

Elise wanted to have a family. It was just a matter of meeting the right man. But as capable as she was as a law enforcement officer, she was incredibly shy when it came to meeting men. It was an odd juxtaposition that her friends constantly teased her about. Some were fond of saying that if she ever met the right man, it better be while he was in the process of committing a crime, or she was very likely to let him escape.

She doubted that was how it would play out. She was simply old-fashioned. She believed that when she met the right man, they both would know it and that would be it. Plain and simple.

And as far as remaining desirable until that someone special came along, Elise had nothing to worry about, as the Service required that she remain in top physical condition.

To that end, and even though she had been at Carolyn Leonard’s so late the night before and had allowed herself to sleep in because she had several days in a row off, she’d still gone for a five-mile run once she was up.

After returning to her apartment, she took a long, hot shower and continued to think about everything she and Carolyn had discussed.

Leonard was right. The final decision about what to do rested with her. She had also laid out a million different ways that pursuing the president’s alleged involvement in Nikki Hale’s death could blow up in Elise’s face and end her career.

The upside, if there was one, was minimal compared with what the downside very likely would be. That said, Leonard had admitted that if she was in Elise’s shoes, she would have had trouble dropping the matter as well.

Campbell didn’t need the added encouragement, but she appreciated her mentor’s admission. In fact, Elise’s mind had been made up from the beginning. She just hadn’t realized it. No matter how small the upside, or how great the downside, she couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

While she’d remained neutral on-duty during the primaries and through the general election, off-duty she had been an ardent Alden supporter. Many of her friends had said she was in serious need of a twelve-step program in order to kick the Alden Kool-Aid habit. Those same friends would be stunned if they saw her questioning him now. In all fairness, she herself was stunned. A week ago, if anyone had suggested President Alden could have been involved in anything untoward, much less a cover-up around the death of Nikki Hale, she would have told them they were out of their minds. Yet here she was, ready to begin her own quiet, and highly illegal, investigation of the newly elected president of the United States.

Pouring a cup of coffee, Elise grabbed her cordless phone off the counter and headed back into the living room. Scrolling through her BlackBerry, she found the number she was looking for, plugged it into the cordless, and then leaned back onto the couch and took a quick sip from her mug.

The call was answered by a woman with a heavy Bronx accent. “East Hampton Town Police. Detective Klees.”

“Hi, Rita. It’s Elise.”

“Hey there,” responded a voice deepened from years of smoking. “How ya doing?”

“I’m good. I’m good,” said Campbell.

“You been watching the Yankees? They’re off to a good start.”

Elise laughed. You could take the girl out of the Bronx, but you couldn’t take the Bronx out of the girl. Rita Klees was a rabid Yankees fan.

“Are you surprised?” asked Campbell. “Look how well they did in the Grapefruit League this year. They’re going all the way.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” replied Klees. “I’ve still got my reservations about Girardi, but he’s very good-looking, and he’s starting to grow on me.”

“Rita, the man’s married,” Campbell teased.

“So was Alex Rodriguez until he met Madonna. Listen, as long as Mrs. Girardi keeps Mr. Girardi out of East Hampton, he’ll be fine. But if he happens to come to town and just happens to bump into this particular material girl, I can’t be responsible for what Cupid does to the poor guy.”

Elise laughed again. She had no doubt that if Girardi, or any other New York Yankee, showed up in her jurisdiction, Rita would personally put them under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Not only that, but she would probably find a way to introduce herself and end up inviting them out to her favorite tavern to drink them under the table. She was one of those people you couldn’t help but enjoy being around. She had an infectious laugh and a larger-than-life personality. She was an irresistible force that immediately became the center of gravity in every room she ever walked into.

An attractive woman in her late forties with dark hair and bright blue eyes, Klees had a pair of breasts almost as big as her personality. She was fond of saying that her boobs did for her what Columbo’s wrinkled raincoat had done for the clever television detective. Most men, and more than a few women, believed that breast size and intelligence were inversely proportional. That patently asinine line of reasoning was fine by Klees. She was smarter and better at her job than any four men put together. The NYPD had known it and had promoted her accordingly. She’d earned her gold shield faster than any woman in the history of the force.

But after losing two close friends on 9/11, she’d decided she’d had it with New York City. She traded in the stress, the crime, the hassles, and a not insignificant portion of her paycheck for life in the Hamptons. And while she didn’t live like a rock star or a hotel heiress, she was happy. Rita made friends wherever she went and East Hampton was no exception.

Though she was several years removed from Manhattan, she still maintained excellent contacts back at the NYPD and with many of the federal law enforcement agencies. When organizations like the Secret Service came to East Hampton, it was a no-brainer for Rita’s chief to assign her as the liaison. That was how she and Elise Campbell had become friends.

Due to the number of threats he had received, Robert Alden had been assigned Secret Service protection very early on in the primary campaign, and Elise had been one of the agents tasked to his detail. Part of her responsibility was doing advance work and interfacing with local law enforcement wherever the senator traveled. Though Elise wasn’t working the trip on which Nikki Hale was killed, she had made several visits to East Hampton with Alden and had gotten to know Rita Klees very well. Their mutual love of the Yankees vaulted Campbell’s standing in the East Hampton detective’s eyes, and on multiple evenings off, Rita dragged Elise to some of her favorite watering holes. And even though Campbell had not returned to East Hampton since the Hale incident, she and Rita still kept in touch via email—which technically meant that she was on the daily receiving end of humorous emails forwarded by the East Hampton detective.

“So, you coming to town or did you call just to talk baseball?” asked Klees.

“No to both, unfortunately.”

“What’s up?”

“I need some help with something,” said Campbell. “Do you remember the Nikki Hale case?”

“The wasted senior staffer who plowed her car into that minivan head-on last summer? Yeah, I remember it. Why?”

“I need to see the file.”

“What for?” asked Klees.

“Off the record?”

“Sure. Off the record.”

“There’s a concern that someone may not have been completely truthful in their witness statement.”

There was a pause and Elise thought she could hear her friend taking a puff on a cigarette, though she doubted even the larger-than-life Rita Klees would be allowed to smoke in the East Hampton Town PD headquarters.

When Rita finally answered, her tone had changed. She was a lot less jovial and a lot more businesslike. “Which witness are we talking about?” she asked. “And who exactly is concerned?”

“I can’t say,” replied Elise.

“
Can’t say
to which question?”

“Both.”

“No offense, Elise, but you were just one of Alden’s advance people and you weren’t even out here during the whole Hale thing. Why am I getting this call from you?”

“Because we’re friends.”

Klees was silent again. Elise strained to discern if it was because Rita was taking another drag, but she couldn’t tell. She assumed it was because Klees was deciding how to respond.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” asked the detective.

“No. Of course not,” she replied. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re not being straight with me.”

Whether it was because she’d been a cop, or because she was a native New Yorker, Rita had an exceptional bullshit detector.