The problem, though, was that Jordan had gone missing. No one had heard from him and no one knew where he was. They suspected Page might have had something to do with it. Harvath had been tasked with getting to the bottom of it.
Once he did, though, Page’s confession—secured under considerable duress—was absolutely inadmissible in court. Ryan and McGee were just happy to have recovered Jordan’s body from the forest preserve where it had been buried, and to have closure. The possibility of a well-funded rogue CIA agent floating around wasn’t something they wanted to add to their to-do list.
And while recovering Jordan’s body and knowing Page had been responsible for his murder did provide closure, it didn’t provide any sense of justice. That was where the Old Man had come in.
The moment Harvath had heard his idea, he had been one hundred percent onboard. It meant one more plane ride, but he was happy to do it.
Pumping Paul Page full of ketamine, he had flown with him to Malta. There, he had met up with Vella, who had provided him a vehicle and a ticket on the high-speed car ferry to Sicily. Argento’s lieutenant, along with Roberto and Naldo, had met them upon arrival.
In the car trunk, “attempting to sneak into Italy,” was Page. In his pocket was a key for a safety deposit box at a bank in Palermo. In the box was a passel of uncut diamonds, paid for with money drained from one of Andrew Jordan’s offshore accounts.
It was a payday worth sneaking into Italy for. No matter what tall tale Page told about being smuggled into Italy against his will, no jury would ever believe him. Not only would he be expected to serve his full sentence for the kidnapping of the Milan Imam, but the diamonds would be forfeited and go toward paying off the fines levied against him in the case.
For a man suffering from Alzheimer’s, Reed Carlton was still pretty sharp.
“I have good days and bad,” he said, as he picked up his drink and joined Harvath at the windows. “The only thing I know for sure is that it’s not getting better.”
This was the visit Harvath had wanted to pay before he had left for Libya, but now that he was here, he wanted to be anywhere but. Knowing the Old Man was slipping away was more painful than having him suddenly taken.
The two of them were like family. Now, the father was looking to hand over the business to the son. The problem, though, was that the son didn’t want it. Not fully. Not yet.
“I know you want me to run a Special Activities Division for you,” he said, “but I’ve still got a lot of special activities I’d actually like to carry out. I don’t want to sit behind a desk.”
“What if you didn’t have to?” Carlton asked. “What if it were a hybrid and you could do a little bit of everything?”
“There’d have to be a solid team in place, starting with a number two who knew what the hell he or she was doing.”
“I hear you and Mike Haney get along pretty well. What about him?”
Harvath smiled. The Old Man was always up on everything. “Haney walks funny.”
Carlton smiled back. “That might be permanent. Time will tell. Nevertheless, he’s interested. If you are.”
“You already talked to him?”
“Of course. I don’t have a lot of time to pull this succession plan together.”
Harvath loved the Old Man, and also loved his offer, but there was a reason he had left D.C. and moved to Boston. “I have a plan I’m trying to pull together too. I can’t do that from here.”
“What if you didn’t have to?” said a voice.
He turned to see Lara standing in the doorway of the study. He didn’t know if he should hug Carlton or hit him. He had always been a resourceful yet manipulative spy. For the moment, Harvath decided to ignore him.
Crossing over to Lara, he took her in his arms and hugged her. He had missed her. “What are you doing here?”
“Lydia Ryan called me.”
“Against my wishes,” said Carlton.
“She cares about both of you,” Lara continued, “and she thinks you should take this position.”
Harvath laughed. “I’m sure she does. It’d make her job a lot easier having me around.”
“So do it. Take the position.”
“But what about us? What about Boston?”
“We’ll figure it out,” she replied. “Right now, though, there are a lot of people who need you here. The country needs you here. Not in Boston.”
“And you and Marco?” he asked.
“You made the move for us and I love you for that. But maybe we should have made the move for you. Maybe the right answer for all of us is here.”
Harvath kissed her. This was what he wanted. This was exactly where he wanted to be.
Looking over at Carlton, he saw the Old Man smile.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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The best part (for an author) of finishing a novel is getting to the acknowledgments and saying thank you to all the people so important to the process.
At the top of my list are you, my amazing readers—old and new. Thank you for making the career I love possible. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews. Thank you for all the great word of mouth. I work for you, and I have the best employers in the business.
Next, a BIG thank-you to all the sensational booksellers across the globe who sell my thrillers. You are gateways to adventure, excitement, and escape. We romanticize what you do, even though we know so much hard work goes into it. Always know how much this author (and book buyer) appreciates you.
Thank you, James Ryan, for your help on this one. While you’re out there doing it, I’m at my desk writing it. You continue to inspire me to improve myself in every area of my life. Knowing I can reach out to you day or night is invaluable.
This year, while going through some old photographs, I found a picture of me and Sean F when we were little, little kids. I framed a copy and gave it to him for Christmas. It was a token not only of our friendship, but of my thanks for what he has given to this country and for the help he has provided me on my books. Thank you, Sean, for everything.
Speaking of photographs, I am indebted to Greg Hammonds for the pictures and fascinating, firsthand information he shared with me about Tajikistan.
Through thick and thin, Rodney Cox is someone I truly value. His advice is always excellent, and I appreciate his hard-won experience forged in some of the darkest corners of the world. Thank you, my friend, for everything.
J’ro—that was the best bottle of whiskey I ever consumed. A late, late evening indeed, but the information was invaluable. Thank you for that and so many other things.
Thomas Williams was a big help on and off the page. Thank you, brother—from the entire family.
Soon to be a newly minted thriller author himself, George Petersen was extremely gracious in answering a wide array of questions. No detail was ever too small. Thank you, George. I appreciate all of it.