“How long until the Taliban and al-Qaeda know he’s been snatched?”
“With the moles they’ve got everywhere? I’d say twenty-four to forty-eight hours tops.”
Harvath looked at his watch and calculated the time difference with D.C. He owed Stephanie Gallo an updated report. He also needed her to do something for him.
“Do you think we can get Hoyt and Mark Midland to help babysit?” he asked.
Gallagher nodded. “If the price is right.”
Putting down his beer, Harvath pulled out his cell phone. “Good. Call them and tell them to get over here.” Then he added, “And I need to have a powwow with Fontaine.”
“Fontaine? Why?”
“Because now that the Khan part of the operation is over, he’s going to help us get Julia Gallo back.”
CHAPTER 32
TOWN TAVERN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
“So, you want to tell me what we’re doing here?” asked Max Holland as he set his drink down on the table and looked Elise Campbell in the eye.
Holland, a twenty-five-year veteran Secret Service operative, had short gray hair, blue eyes, and hands the size of catchers’ mitts. He had been Robert Alden’s lead protective agent during the campaign and had been promoted to head of his detail when Alden was elected president. At fifty-three, he was the oldest agent protecting the president-something his smartass colleagues were more than happy to point out at all hours of the day and night. In fact, they liked to joke that Holland could never stand too near the military officer who carried the nuclear football for fear that his “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” Life Alert necklace might trigger an accidental launch.
The Secret Service agent took it all in stride. With the flood of young and relatively inexperienced agents that had been transfused into the White House, Holland was their senior in more ways than one. He knew their jokes were only good-natured ribbing. The most important thing was that they respect him, and they did. While Holland would have preferred that the president be surrounded by more experienced agents, there had been such a mass exodus after the election, he could do nothing more than make sure the people that the president did have were the absolute best that the Secret Service could provide.
Quietly, Holland resented the hell out of his colleagues who had taken early retirement rather than serve under President Alden. As far as he was concerned, they were a disgrace to the Secret Service. No matter how much they didn’t care for the new POTUS, they should have still been able to carry out their commitment to protecting the person who held the office. The exodus had destroyed many friendships and poisoned many more to the point that they were as good as ruined.
Looking across the table, Holland wondered what personal problem Campbell was going to unload on him. One of the drawbacks of being the most senior man on the team was that a lot of the agents saw him as a father figure and continually wanted to unburden themselves to him.
The best reason he always held these meetings at the Town Tavern in Adams Morgan was that it was the unofficial home of Chicago sports fans in D.C., and while Campbell droned on about her credit card debt, boyfriend problems, or how she felt her parents didn’t really understand her, Holland, a native Chicagoan who had been married and divorced twice, could keep one eye glued to the Cubs game on the TV behind the bar.
“Do you remember Nikki Hale?” the young agent asked after their food had arrived.
“Sort of,” he said as he took a bite of his bacon cheeseburger. “Why?”
“I heard she was pretty out of it the night she died.”
“That’s what they say,” replied Holland as he held up his empty glass and got a nod from the bartender.
“Did you see her that night?”
“Elise, why the sudden interest in Nikki Hale?”
The great thing about train rides was that they gave you plenty of time to think, and Elise Campbell had done just that as she made her way back from East Hampton. She understood the path she had chosen and she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. That was why she had decided to start with Holland. “I think there’s more to what went on that night than people know.”
“Like what?”
“Like-” began Campbell, before she was interrupted by the bartender, who set a new draft in front of Holland and asked her if she wanted another Diet Coke. Declining, she turned her attention back to Holland. “Like whom she’d been partying with before she sped off.”
“Like maybe the president?” offered Holland as he clamped down once more on his cheeseburger and tore off another bite.
“If they were actually together, then yes.”
“Leave it alone, Elise.”
“Why? What if the president actually had something to do with what happened that night?”
Holland chewed his food slowly and then took a long swallow of his Bud Light. “I’m going to eat my dinner and forget that we ever had this conversation.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Elise, why are you so interested in Nikki Hale’s death?”
Campbell knew from being a cop that when someone answered a question with a question, he was usually avoiding telling you something.
Prepared for the fact that her next question could very well end her career with the Secret Service, she took a deep breath and let it fly. “You were working Alden’s detail the night Nikki Hale died. I want to know if the president had anything to do with it.”
Slowly, Holland put down his cheeseburger and pushed his plate away. Picking up his napkin, he wiped the grease from his fingers. “In sixty seconds, I’m standing up and walking out of here.”
“Why?”
“Fifty-nine seconds,” he replied as he raised his glass to his mouth and knocked back half of his beer.
Campbell waited for him to put the glass back down and then said, “You’re going to be subpoenaed over what happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s going to be a new investigation.”
Holland couldn’t tell if the woman was telling the truth or not. “How would you know?” he asked.
“Trust me, I know.”
Holland laughed, removed two twenties from his wallet, and dropped them on the bar. “See you around.”
Elise put her hand on his arm as he rose from his stool. “I’m doing you a favor, Max,” she said, and then corrected herself. “Actually, I’m doing the Secret Service a favor, a big one, but I can only do it if you help me.”
The elder Secret Service agent closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and sat back down. “What is this all about, Elise?”
“It’s about a new lawsuit against the president for his involvement in Hale’s death.”
“Who says he had anything to do with it?”
“Stephanie Gallo.”
“Gallo? What are you talking about? Did she tell you this?”
“Not directly, no.”
Holland stared at her for a moment before it hit him. “Jesus, Elise. You overheard the president and Gallo talking about something, didn’t you?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“For the first time tonight, you’re right. It isn’t about you. It’s about the Secret Service and our ability to protect the president. How the hell are we supposed to do that if he won’t let us get close enough to him because he’s worried we’re eavesdropping on him?”
When Elise tried to reply, Holland interrupted her. “If you hate the guy so much, why don’t you just resign like
