Blowback

The pair worked several grueling cases before the White House finally decided Harvath was ready for the big leagues of presidential protection.

Harvath’s new position kept him very busy, and gradually, the two friends fell out of touch. Harvath had felt guilty about it. Had he known that Rayburn had purposely let the friendship lapse because he had no further use for the former SEAL, he probably would have felt a lot different. It wasn’t until Rayburn was forced back onto Harvath’s radar screen that the young Secret Service agent realized he’d been taken.

Rayburn headed a team of Secret Service agents that had been assigned to complement a State Department security detail protecting a high-level foreign dignitary visiting the United States. Two days into the visit, the dignitary was assassinated.

Because of his expertise in counterterrorism, Harvath was asked to consult in the investigation. The deeper he dug, the more his gut told him the killer, or killers, had somehow received help from the inside. As much as he hated to go in that direction, he had no choice but to conduct a thorough examination of the security detail.

As Harvath connected the dots, a picture began to emerge-and it wasn’t flattering. His hunch had been right. Someone had been bought. The trail eventually led to the door of one of Rayburn’s men, but there had still been something about all of it that didn’t feel right, so Harvath kept digging, quietly.

Harvath’s involvement in the investigation was something Rayburn had never planned on. The older agent had picked a fall guy and had planted the evidence implicating him so deep that by the time the investigators found it they would be not only exhausted but completely convinced they had their man. Harvath, though, was no stranger to being wrongfully accused of a crime he didn’t commit, and had worked overtime to help clear the agent he sensed wasn’t guilty. Nailing Rayburn as the real bad guy was another story entirely.

When it came down to it, most of the evidence against Rayburn, as well as how Harvath had uncovered it, wasn’t admissible in court. There was, though, enough to get him booted from the Secret Service and to make sure that he never worked in law enforcement again. Fueled by the anger he felt over Rayburn’s betrayal, Harvath continued to work outside official channels and eventually tracked down a numbered account in the Caymans that Rayburn had used for his blood money. Working through an “unofficial” contact, Harvath had the funds discreetly transferred to a compensation fund established for the deceased dignitary’s family.

Draining the account provided only a small measure of satisfaction. As far as Harvath was concerned, the man should have stood trial for murder. After the investigation had been officially closed, Rayburn disappeared. But Harvath had never forgotten him. He figured the U.S. government hadn’t either. Somewhere within the intelligence community, somebody might still be keeping an eye on him, but as long as Senator Carmichael was looking to put Harvath’s head on a stake, Gary Lawlor had made it clear that he didn’t want him reaching out to any of his contacts within the community, including Lawlor himself. Gary had established a roundabout way for Harvath to get in touch with him, but only if he absolutely had to. For the time being, Harvath was operating without a net, and given the current situation back in Washington, if he fell, no one was going to step forward and identify his remains.

That left Harvath with only one option-he would have to get creative, and the first thing he would have to get creative with was a way to get his hands on the specific intelligence he needed.

With a ban in effect on reaching out to any of his official intelligence contacts, he realized he would have to go outside his normal circle. It took him a moment, but he soon came up with somebody who could help him. The only question was, would Nick Kampos be in the mood to do him such a major favor?

SIXTEEN

After parting with Kalachka, Harvath had needed only one phone call to the Cyprus office of DEA agent Nick Kampos to get his answer. When his cab dropped him later that night at an outdoor taverna near the port of Kyrenia, Kampos was already sitting at a table by the water.

“Classy,” said Harvath as he pulled out the plastic chair opposite the man and sat down. The squat wooden table was covered with a redand-white-checkered tablecloth, complete with paper napkins, dirty flatware, and a chipped hurricane lamp. “If I didn’t know you better, Nick, I’d swear you were just trying to impress me.”

“Are you kidding me?” said the DEA agent as he swept his arm toward the harbor and its brightly colored fishing boats. “Look at this view.”

“It’s terrific,” replied Harvath as he leaned over and shoved a stack of napkins under one of his chair legs to even it out.