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MANDARIN ORIENTAL HOTEL

WASHINGTON, DC

Chief of Staff Charles Anderson found the Swiss ambassador at a quiet table in the Mandarin’s lobby bar.

“Can I buy you a drink, Chuck?” asked Hans Friederich as a waitress set down his martini.

“I’ll have a light beer,” said Anderson. “I don’t care what kind.”

“Light beer?” said the ambassador as the waitress smiled and walked away. “Since when does Charles Anderson drink light beer?”

“Since my trousers started getting a little too snug around the waist.”

The ambassador laughed good-naturedly.

“I’m also going back to the office tonight,” added the chief of staff. “We’ve got a bit of a situation brewing.”

“I’ve been watching your situation brewing all day on TV,” said Friederich.

Anderson grimaced. “Yeah. The al-Jazeera thing. Believe it or not, that’s shaping up to be the least of my worries at this point.”

“Then I’m sorry that I might soon be adding to them.”

“Why?” asked Anderson. “Are Mitzi and the kids okay?”

“They’re fine.”

“How about you? You look like maybe you should start thinking about switching over to light beer too.”

The ambassador smiled and shook his head. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Friederich tilted his head in the direction of the approaching waitress and fell silent. Once the young woman had poured Anderson ’s beer and left the table, the ambassador continued. “I have some information for you, but before I give it to you, I want you to know that we’re only an intermediary. My government has no way of corroborating what I am about to share.”

“Understood. What do you have?”

“The sword of Allah.”

“The sword of Allah?” repeated Anderson. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“If what I hear is true, you are about to become extremely familiar with it. It’s a weapon with which Islamic fundamentalists intend to purge the world of all but the most devoted Muslims.”

“And exactly what kind of a weapon is this?”

“It’s a sickness that infects all but the most devout followers of Islam.”

Anderson almost spit his beer back in his glass. How the hell did the Swiss ambassador know about this? He took a moment to glance around the bar to make sure nobody was listening to them. “Where’d you get this information?”

“I’m here on behalf of a man who does a tremendous amount of business with my country.”

“Who?”

“He’s not a Swiss citizen, but he has been extremely-”

“Damn it, Hans. I don’t have time to fool around. Who the hell did you get this information from?” demanded Anderson.

“Ozan Kalachka.”

“Kalachka the Turk? The terrorist?”

“The terrorist characterization is malicious and unfounded,” replied Friederich.

“Unfounded, my ass. Western intelligence, in particular the CIA, knows-”

“Western intelligence knows precious little. In fact, Western intelligence, your CIA in particular, has been trying to compile a detailed dossier on him for years without any luck.”

“We know enough about him,” said Anderson.

“I don’t think so. In fact-”

“Hans, let me save you some time. If you’re here trying to promote Ozan Kalachka for U.S. citizenship in exchange for whatever dubious information he may or may not have, forget it. We don’t want anything to do with him. And frankly, I can’t understand why Switzerland bothers with him either.”

“Mr. Kalachka is a businessman. He has many legitimate international contacts that have proven very profitable for Switzerland.”

“And lots of not-so-legitimate contacts that have proven very profitable for Switzerland ’s private banking industry.”

“True,” said Friederich as he took another sip of his martini. “But in all fairness, the United States had their Adnan Khashoggi to help cement its relationship with the Saudis and their mountains of money. One trillion they have in your economy now, if I recall correctly. It’s no wonder you remain so loyal to them. If they pulled their money out of America, your economy would collapse.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that Ozan Kalachka serves much the same function for us as Khashoggi has for you-he drums up capital for our ventures in other parts of the world.”

“Capital. It sounds so clean when you put it that way.”

“Come on, Chuck. We both know how the game is played. The difference with the Swiss, though, is that we recognized the value of doing business with Kalachka straight away. I believe Khashoggi didn’t get his job with the White House until he accidentally ‘forgot’a briefcase with a million dollars in it at the home of your President Nixon. After that, as I understand it, Mr. Khashoggi became quite popular over here. Your country even thought enough of him to allow him to act as the middleman during the whole Iran-Contra affair, didn’t it?”

“Those were different administrations,” replied Anderson, exasperated. “Can we please get to the point here?”

“The point is that you shouldn’t allow your preconceptions to cause you to dismiss the information Ozan Kalachka has-”

“Allegedly has, and I’m not dismissing it. I just don’t like the taste I get in my mouth when I say the guy’s name.”

“Does that mean you’re interested?”

“I still don’t completely know what we’re talking about. You’re going to have to give me more than just this cloak and sword of Allah routine.”

“Fair enough,” said the ambassador as he removed a small digital video player from his suitcoat pocket. “Mr. Kalachka thought you might need some additional convincing.”

Anderson watched in disbelief as he was shown virtually the same footage he had seen in the situation room that morning from Asalaam. “Where did you get this?”

“I told you,” said Friederich. “I’m just the messenger. You’ll have to ask Mr. Kalachka.”

“No doubt he wants something in return.”

“Yes. Mr. Kalachka apparently needs a favor.”

Anderson was understandably wary. “What kind of favor?”

“Mr. Kalachka is prepared to tell the United States what he knows about the weapon and will even provide access to one of the scientists who worked on it-”

“One of the scientists is still alive?”

“According to Mr. Kalachka, yes. But there is only one person he will give this information to, and he wants to arrange a meeting with him in private, at which point he will ask favor face-to-face.”

The chief of staff had known the Swiss ambassador for many years and could read him like a book. “Absolutely not. I won’t allow it.”

“Allow what?” asked Friederich. “I haven’t even told you who he wants to meet with yet.”

“I know you, Hans, and I can’t believe you thought for a second I’d allow the president of the United States to meet with a man like Ozan Kalachka.”

The ambassador couldn’t help laughing. “That would indeed be a historic meeting, but thankfully, President Rutledge is not the person Mr. Kalachka wishes to meet with. He has someone else in mind.”

Anderson was trying to guess who in the U.S. government Kalachka might want a favor from and why he would need the Swiss ambassador and the president’s chief of staff to put it together for him. “As long as this person is not the president or a cabinet member, I’m willing to consider arranging a meeting. Who are we talking about?”

The ambassador leaned forward and said, “Agent Scot Harvath.”

THE WHITE HOUSE

NEXT MORNING

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 right 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.”