Blowback

Harvath laughed. They had posted a very admirable time in last year’s marathon, but he was a Navy man, and it was gut-wrenching to get blown away in the final mile by a group of young Marines whom they had had a considerable lead over for the entire race. “Okay, maybe it’s more than just a race, but that’s not why I called.”

“What’s up?”

“Remember back when I was working the president’s Secret Service detail at the White House and got your family on one of the VIP tours?”

“Of course I do. My mother and sister still talk about it-and you, as a matter of fact. You swear to God nothing happened between you and Denise?”

McCauliff was like Sonny Corleone when it came to his kid sister, and no matter what Harvath ever told him, the guy never believed anything he said about the evening they spent together. “You’re never going to let it go, are you? We had one drink and I dropped her back at her hotel. I’ve told you that a million times.”

“I know, but it’s over three years ago, and she still talks about you. What would you think if you were in my position?”

“I’d think I need some therapy.”

It was McCauliff who laughed this time. “I’ll take it under advisement,” replied the NGA operative as he switched the phone to his other ear. “So what can I do for you?”

“Have you ever heard of a satellite imaging company called Spot Image?”

“Sure. We’ve even done some work with them. Why?”

“Do you have a relationship with anybody there?

McCauliff thought about it for a second. “I know a couple of people. Their U.S. Offices are just over in Chantilly, Virginia. What do you need?”

Having seen the clippings Marie had kept from several French newspapers about Bernard’s disappearance and the subsequent search and rescue effort, Harvath said, “I’m working a missing person’s case overseas right now. The man’s name was Bernard Lavoine, L-A-V-O-I-N-E. He disappeared with two other individuals over a year ago on a climbing expedition in the Alps. He ordered a lot of satellite imagery from Spot, and I’m hoping that it might help shed some light on where he was when he disappeared.”

“So why isn’t someone from DHS calling them?”

“Because the case is personal, Kevin. I’m not operating in an official capacity.”

McCauliff was quiet for several moments on his end of the line. “You swear nothing happened between you and my sister, right?”

“Jesus, Kevin. Yes, I swear.”

“Okay, “He responded, “give me a way to get in touch with you, and I’ll see what I can do.”

After giving him the number at the hotel, Harvath thanked Mc-Cauliff and hung up the phone. Jillian then looked at him and said, “Now what?”

“Now, we wait.”

FORTY-TWO

HAMTRAMCK, MICHIGAN

America had been good to Kaseem Najjar, very good. His string of Muslim grocery stores and his mail-order food business were flourishing, his three children attended some of the United States ’ most prestigious universities, and the man was seen as a pillar of his largely Muslim community just outside Detroit. In America, anything was possible, and Kaseem had proven it.

A refugee from war-torn Sudan, he had the almost stereotypical rags-to-riches immigrant story. He had come to America with nothing but the clothes on his back, and over the course of twenty-five years he had built a dynasty catering to the tastes of those who longed for the foods of their homeland. When it came to the products Kaseem featured on his store shelves, in his mail-order catalog, or on his new web site, he discriminated against no one. His fortune had been built catering to all Muslims. Chili peppers from Indonesia, pistachios from Iran, dates from Libya, special bread flour from Iraq -Kaseem Najjar did not care how hard they were to import. He was a man who never took no for an answer, and that dogged determination was half of what had made him such a success.

The other half of Kaseem’s success came from the balance he struck in his life. Though he had never asked for such status, he was proud to be a role model for the Muslims of his community. On an almost weekly basis, a customer, a colleague, or a member of his mosque would ask him the predominant question that seemed to occupy the mind of every Muslim living in the United States -Where should my allegiance lie? With Islam or with America? Am I a Muslim first or an American?

Even though he’d been asked the same question thousands of times, he still treated each inquiry as if it were the first time he’d ever been asked. His response, though, was always the same. Instead of an answer, he would pose his own question. “If you had two children, “He would say, “who were both equally gifted, beautiful, and possessed of unlimited promise, to which would you devote all of your love?”