“I don’t know that I should go into it.”
“Go into what?”
She took a deep breath and exhaled. “He’s not well.”
“Wait. The Old Man isn’t well? What’s wrong?”
“It’s being kept quiet, but he’s starting to forget things.”
Harvath looked at her. “As in dementia?”
She nodded. “He has Alzheimer’s.”
It was like getting hit in the chest with a hammer. “How long has he known?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Lydia, how long?” he repeated.
“The diagnosis came right before you decided to go to Boston.”
Harvath’s ripple of guilt turned into a wave. “He never told me.”
She managed half a smile. “He didn’t want it to influence your decision.”
“How bad is it?”
“He’s having trouble retaining new information, but all the old stuff is right at his fingertips.”
“Will it get worse?”
She nodded again. “It typically starts with difficultly retaining new information. Then, as it moves through the brain, symptoms get more severe. Confusion about times, dates, places, and events are common, along with disorientation, and deepening suspicion of friends and family. Behavior changes are often seen, and eventually there’s more serious memory loss, which can be followed by the inability to speak, swallow, or walk. None of it’s pretty.”
Smiling, Ryan added, “He’s a tough son of a bitch, though. He doesn’t want anybody feeling sorry for him.”
“Why you, though?” Harvath asked. “Why would McGee and President Porter want to lose you at CIA?”
“Because the reforms at the Agency aren’t going as well as we’d hoped.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, it’s like turning a battleship around.”
“But you knew it would take time,” he stated. “McGee has already fired a ton of deadweight.”
“Which is a good start, but it’s not enough,” she said. “Not with how quickly the threats are mounting. There are some absolutely terrific people at CIA, but nowhere near the numbers needed to reverse the broken culture. That’s still years off.”
“What’s the Carlton Group’s role in this supposed to be?” Harvath asked.
She thought for a second about how best to frame her response. “If the CIA needs a total gut rehab, the Carlton Group is the home we’re going to live in while it’s being done.”
The Old Man had always believed, and Harvath had agreed, that the CIA needed to be burned to the ground and rebuilt in the model of its predecessor, the nimbler Office of Strategic Services. With all of the bureaucratic calcification in Washington, though, he had doubted whether he’d ever live to see it happen.
He knew that anyone who tried to carry out such a mission was going to get overwhelming pushback— or worse. “You’re going to tick off a lot of people.”
“That’s why it’s being kept quiet,” she replied, “along with Reed’s diagnosis. I’m telling you because I think you should know.”
Harvath appreciated her being straight with him. Reed Carlton had been more than just a mentor. He’d been like a father. “What can I do?” he asked. “Does he need anything? Do you need anything?”
The list was miles long. The task she had taken on Herculean. There was one item, though, right at the top. “The Carlton Group needs its own Special Operations Group.”
Harvath wasn’t surprised. Covert operations were a vital part of national security. One of the most counterproductive things the CIA had ever done was put its operatives in embassies around the world. Too many of them began to think like State Department employees. They brought their families along on each two-year rotation, focusing on the next promotion, while the Ambassador, not the Chief of Station, had final say over what ops they could and couldn’t conduct. It was poisonous.
In an environment controlled by the State Department, diplomacy came first. Espionage, depending upon the steel of a given Ambassador, came a distant second.
The stories of good men and women in the clandestine service missing out on big intelligence wins because of State Department fears were legion. Trolling diplomatic cocktail parties, running low-risk recruiting operations, and waiting for foreign walk-ins all had their place, but so too did complicated, high-risk operations that offered potential windfalls. As long as Foggy Bottom was calling the shots, Langley was operating with one arm tied behind its back.
If the Carlton Group was going to be a leaner, meaner version of the CIA, it would need its own Special Operations Group.
Based on the amount of work the Agency had been feeding him, Harvath wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him, though, was that Ryan was raising the issue with him.
“Why are we talking about this?” he asked. “The Old Man isn’t hoping I’ll lead one of the teams, is he?”
Ryan shook her head. “No. He’s hoping you’ll lead the entire thing.”
Harvath couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re both losing your minds.”
She put up her hands. “Now’s not the time. Right now, you need to focus on what Mustapha Marzouk was up to. We’ll talk about everything else when you get back.”
• • •
They worked for several more hours, refining Harvath’s plan and making several final preparations.
When he stood up to leave, McGee and Ryan accompanied him outside. It had been a long day. He needed a drink and some time to process.
More important, he wanted to pay a visit to the Old Man. Ryan, though, cautioned against it. “See him when you get back. He’ll still be here. Don’t worry.”
She was right, but he did worry. There were few things he could think of worse than having your entire mind taken from you. It was heartbreaking. Part of him felt like he should apologize for letting the Old Man down — as if doing so might help reverse his Alzheimer’s. It was stupid and he knew it, but that didn’t stop him from feeling it.
Another part of him just wanted Carlton to know he wasn’t alone. He was one of the best men Harvath had ever known. He deserved better.
Ryan seemed to be able to read his thoughts. Instead of a handshake, she put her arms around him and gave him a hug. McGee shook his hand and wished him good luck.
As they turned back to the lockhouse, Harvath’s mind turned to what lay in front of him.
Had he been paying better attention, he might have sensed the figure hidden in the woods. Two hundred yards away, a man was snapping photos of him with a long-lensed digital camera.
CHAPTER 10
The Catholic pilgrimage trail known as the Camino de Santiago was a vast network of routes across Europe. They culminated at Santiago’s massive Romanesque cathedral, where the remains of Saint James the Elder — one of the twelve apostles, and patron saint of Spain — were buried.
Tursunov could have picked any religious building, but this one was special. From his position on the Praza do Obradoiro, he noted the masses of tourists. The body count would be exceptional.
But it wasn’t just the cathedral’s popularity that had appealed to him.
While researching his Burning Man attack, he had come across something remarkable. Black Rock City was laid out in such a way that its central axis pointed directly to the Cathedral in Santiago. He knew this wasn’t an accident.
His mother, a follower of the mystical strain of Sufi Islam, had always encouraged him to see the hand of the Divine in all things, everywhere. It was as if Allah himself was directing him.
James was also known as Santiago Matamoros, or St. James the “Moor-slayer.”