“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” said Lawlor, and the room broke out in another polite round of laughter.
“Yes, I’ll take it.”
Everyone in the room stood and applauded, and Scot rose to shake their hands.
“Before you go,” said the president as a hush fell over the room, “I would like to ask you, Agent Harvath, if there’s anything else I can do. You saved my life and my daughter’s. I’ve given you a new job, but that’s hardly enough. If there’s anything else I can do for you, say the word and it’s yours.”
“Well, Mr. President, there is one thing.”
Epilogue
Caspian Sea-one month later
“Dahling, if you don’t hurry, you will miss sunset,” drawled the beautiful blonde woman in her thick Russian accent. Her tan body was a stark contrast to the white cotton hammock in which she lay. Their sleek sailing yacht sat peacefully at anchor off the Russian coast, with only an occasional ripple across the warm, dark water to disturb yet another otherwise perfect day. “Dahling, are you bringing drinks?” she said in that voice that had captivated him when he first met her in Minsk.
“Da. A little more tequila and I’m going to show you the best margarita you’ve ever had. Even the fucking Mexicans don’t make ‘em this good,” shouted a man’s voice from below deck.
“Well, hurry. Light is going!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your perestroikas on. If you knew how to do anything else but lie around, I’d be up there enjoying it instead of down here!”
From the quiet water, eight wet-suited men with rebreathers broke the surface. Four swam forward to the bow of the vessel, while the remaining men boarded from the stern.
With his MP5 at the ready, Scot Harvath crept quietly into the bowels of the yacht and searched for his target. As he rounded on the galley, he could hear the sound of a blender working on crushed ice.
Ten feet away, his target was dressed in madras Bermudas and a white linen shirt. Harvath conspicuously cleared his throat, and Donald Fawcett spun to see the MP5 pointed right at his forehead.
“Who the fuck are you? What do you want on my boat? I paid some pretty big people a lot of money for protection. If you don’t want to have the Russian Mafia crawling up your ass, I suggest you turn around and get off my yacht immediately,” said Fawcett, incredulous even in the face of death.
“I’m operating on a little higher authority than the Russian Mob,” said Harvath.
Fawcett hadn’t expected to hear English. Whoever this was, he was American, and that could mean only one thing.
“I have a special delivery for you from the president,” Harvath continued. He lowered his weapon, took aim, and shot the finger of Fawcett’s right hand that still rested on the blender’s pulse button. The blender exploded, sending margarita mix all over the galley as Fawcett reeled back in pain. He staggered and moved backward toward a row of drawers. Shock and disbelief was written across his face as he clutched his bleeding hand.
“You have no authority here. These are Russian waters,” cried Fawcett. “There is no extradition deal here. You can’t just come and take me.”
Fawcett let go of his bleeding hand and reached for something behind him.
“You see, that’s where we have a problem due to lack of communication. I didn’t come to take you back,” said Harvath. He saw the fear in Fawcett’s eyes quickly turn to hate as he pulled a gun from behind his back and pointed it at Harvath.
Reflexively, Scot squeezed the trigger and sent a volley of bullets into Fawcett’s head.
Before the lifeless body had slid to the floor, Scot engaged the throat mike beneath his wet suit and spoke the four words he knew the president, Gary Lawlor, and everyone else watching and listening in the White House situation room were waiting to hear. “Tango down. Mission accomplished.”
He then disengaged the microphone and said into the quiet space, “That was for you, Sam. I’ll miss you.”
Harvath looked at his watch and figured he would be able to make the morning flight to Zurich. He knew Claudia would be more than happy to pick him up. It was finally time for that vacation.
Acknowledgments
Seven years ago, my good friend Jill Thevenin and her family opened their small flat to me in Paris and let me live with them while I started work on my first thriller. I wrote about three or four chapters of a promising novel (that I may still finish and have published) before I decided writing was too solitary a life for me. I shelved the manuscript and shipped my “slab” top back home to the States so I could travel “lite” throughout Europe. To be honest, writing a book was one of the most difficult challenges I had ever faced.
I eventually made it back to the Greek island of Paros, where I had lived and worked two summers before. I was having a good old time until I met someone, not far in age from me, who was writing a book of his own. The encounter made me realize how deeply I wanted to be a writer. So, what did I do? Did I grab pen and paper and get back to it? Nope. I had another idea. The writing could continue to wait. I wanted to create my own television travel series. Whether that was avoidance behavior or not, I don’t know.
In a five-year odyssey that saw me bloodied, battered, and bruised, I made my television dream a reality. Traveling Lite now numbers twenty-three episodes and is seen across more than eighty-five percent of the United States, as well as in Canada, Europe, South America, Asia, and the Middle East.
Even though that was a wonderful feeling of accomplishment, I still felt something was missing. That something was writing. I knew it was the one thing I would regret on my deathbed not having done. So, with my wife spouting Arnold Schwarzenegger’s words of advice to his author-spouse, “Don’t talk about it, do it!” I plunged into what I have always wanted to do since I was a child-write books.
That being said, I want to thank the people who have shown me that an author’s life is anything but solitary and who, through their extreme generosity of time, wisdom, and hard-won experience, have made this book and the Scot Harvath character possible.
Gary Penrith, FBI (retired), a great family friend, a sharp dresser, and my guide through the myriad levels of local, federal, and international law enforcement. Peter A. Cavicchia II, Secret Service (retired), who never took the “secret” out of Secret Service, but trusted me enough to let me peek behind the curtain. Harry Humphries, Navy SEAL (retired), a man who, despite having everyone and their brother knocking on his door for his expertise, not only found time to answer my questions about the lives of some of America’s most honorable warriors, but also paid attention to what I was trying to do and gave me suggestions on how to make it even better. Bart Berry and John Krambo, the master networkers, for helping introduce me to Harry Humphries.
John Clair, FBI (retired), an incredible font of tactical information and someone whom I still owe a drink the next time I’m in Wisconsin. To my D.C. contacts Joan Harvath and Patrick Doak, as far as where they work, let’s just say their backgrounds were extremely helpful and I greatly appreciate their assistance with the novel. Chad Norberg, for always being available and always having the right answer. My team in Switzerland-Simon Dryer, Phil Boesiger, and Sebastian Ritscher-thanks for trying to make sure I got everything right. Richard Levy, my good friend, who not only guided my wife and me through the streets of Munich and the tents of Oktoberfest, but who also aided in the novel’s German translations. Sam Perocevic, who helped with the Serbian translations and is the main reason I hope to visit Montenegro some day. John Morris, of the London Telegraph, whose wonderful series, The Grail Trail, exposed me to Vin de Constance.