“So why are you talking to me? Why not this woman?” asked Harvath.

“Because she’s not an operator. She’s not in the business of recovering hostages.”

“But she’s your only lead.”

“There’s something else,” said Kalachka, as he reached next to him and lifted several photos that had been encased in clear plastic sleeves.

“Pictures of your nephew,” said Harvath, resigning himself to what he was going to have to do. “I suppose they would be helpful.”

“They might be more helpful than you think,” stated Kalachka. “Look at them carefully.”

Harvath studied the first two photographs. They showed the actual kidnapping in perfect detail. “Where’d you get these?”

“There was a newly installed security camera on the exterior of the bank across the street. What do you see?”

“I see what looks like the kidnapping of your nephew,” replied Harvath.

“Look at the last picture in the series, as Emir is being shoved into the car. The Mercedes’s windows are blacked out, but in the frame when the door opens, you can see that there’s a man inside.”

As Harvath looked closer at the photo, he saw that Kalachka was right. There definitely was a man sitting inside the Mercedes, and he wasn’t wearing anything to disguise his appearance. It wasn’t a tight enough shot, though, to make a positive identification. Harvath was just about to mention that, when Kalachka handed him the final photograph and said, “I had it digitally enhanced. Tell me what you see now.”

Harvath looked at the photo and saw a face he had hoped never to see again. It was now apparent why Kalachka had asked for him. “You know goddamn well who that is, “He said.

Kalachka’s eyes sparkled as he replied, “And so do you, don’t you?”

Harvath’s head was awash with images. Timothy Rayburn was ex-Secret Service. He had been one of the agency’s best and also one of its most dangerous. He had been Harvath’s earliest mentor, and Harvath had personally seen to it that the man’s employment was terminated and that he could never work for another federal, state, or local law enforcement agency ever again.

“Find Rayburn,” said Kalachka, pulling Harvath’s mind from the past, “and you’ll find the information you need to stop the illness.”

FIFTEEN

As his dented taxicab crawled through the crowded streets of Nicosia, Harvath’s mind spun. After the Secret Service had effectively barred Rayburn from ever working in law enforcement again, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the man had found a way to ply his trade overseas. Harvath reminded himself that there were people out there who would pay big money for what Rayburn could do for them, regardless of his ethics. Based on what Harvath had seen, the man would sell his services to the highest bidder and relegate any pangs of conscience to a remote and dark corner of his psyche. If nothing else, at least Rayburn remained consistent. He had always been about the money, and that was what had gotten him cut from the Secret Service.

Harvath remembered the affair, and more importantly the betrayal, in vivid detail. Ex-military himself, Rayburn had taken a shine to Harvath the moment the new recruit had transferred from the SEALs to the Secret Service. Like many federal law enforcement agencies, the Secret Service often rotated highly skilled field agents through the classrooms at their training facility in Beltsville, Maryland. That was where Harvath and Rayburn had met. Not only did the two become close friends, but Rayburn became somewhat of an older brother figure to Harvath, riding him harder than the other students and saying he owed it to Harvath to be tough on him. Insiders like Rayburn knew why Harvath had been recruited to the Secret Service. They were all very well aware that it was because of his vast counterterrorism background and that he was headed for a special post at the White House.

A self-confessed “old dog in need of some new tricks, “Rayburn took a keen interest in Harvath’s SEAL career and the current way things were being done in the world of counterterrorism. The two spent many late nights bonding over pitchers of beer in several Beltsville taverns. Though Harvath hadn’t noticed it at the time, Rayburn was slowly and methodically picking his brain. And it didn’t end in Beltsville. When Harvath graduated, Rayburn had himself assigned to spend time with the freshly minted field agent.

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.