Free Act of War by Brad Thor Page B

United Arab Emirates,” she said, extending her hand.
    Harvath shook hands and followed her to a waiting SUV. Levy had left it idling with its air-conditioning on full blast. “It’s so damn hot,” she said as they climbed in, “I saw two trees fighting over a dog.”
    Her comment made him smile. “What part of Texas are you from?”
    “Dallas.”
    “So you’re used to the heat.”
    She shook her head. “You never get used to this kind of heat.”
    Harvath agreed. “But at least they make up for it with the culture, right?”
    Levy chuckled. “Yeah, in spades.” She pointed to a large shopping bag on the backseat as she put the truck in gear. “There are shoes and a couple changes of clothes in there. If they don’t fit or you need something else, let me know.”
    Harvath glanced at the bag and thanked her. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
    “In the UAE? Almost a year now. Before that I was in Iraq. And before Iraq, Saudi and Yemen.”
    “Somebody back at Langley must hate your guts.”
    She smiled. “My father was in the oil business. I spent most of my childhood in the Middle East. I’m good with languages. Arabic in particular.”
    “You’re lucky the CIA got you and not the Navy. With language skills like those, they would have sent you to South America.”
    “They’re that screwed up?”
    “I’ve seen some dumb stuff.”
    Levy turned onto a service road and increased her speed.
    “If you’re not a fan of the culture,” Harvath asked, “what are you doing here?”
    “This is where the fight is. Yemen, Saudi, Jordan, Syria, Iraq, every Muslim country is rotting with jihadists. This isn’t a vacation, this is work, and I go where they send me. Fortunately, I enjoy what I do.”
    She was right. The Middle East was definitely where the fight was. He was also glad to hear her say that she truly enjoyed her work. The war on terror had exacted a heavy toll. In addition to those who had been killed or wounded, it had destroyed marriages and broken families both in the military and in the intelligence community. It was just wave after wave that never relented. There was only so much people could handle.
    Harvath, though, had yet to reach his breaking point. He enjoyed his work, too, and Levy’s comment reminded him of the wooden sign that hung near his front door at home. The property had once belonged to the Anglican Church. In the attic he had discovered an old wooden sign engraved with the motto of their missionaries— TRANSIENS ADIUVANOS . I go overseas to give help. It was strangely fitting for the career he had chosen for himself.
    Levy drove them to a squat, sand-colored building on the base that the CIA used for planning and operations. Its narrow windows were covered with reflective film meant to keep out the sun and also mitigate blast damage should a potential bomber ever get inside the wire.
    “We sweep it daily,” she said as she pulled into a parking spot marked by two sun-bleached stripes. “My team just went over it forty-five minutes ago. It’s clean.”
    Harvath grabbed the bag out of the back and followed Levy inside.
    She led him to a midsized conference room lined with maps of theUAE and other countries in the region. A large flat-screen monitor hung on the wall at the front of the room. Waiting for them were three other CIA operatives.
    Harvath wasn’t thrilled with the welcoming party. He had asked Ryan to keep his arrival off the books. All he wanted were the items he had requested and any additional intelligence they had available. After that he preferred to be on his own.
    After the introductions had been made, one of the operatives, a man named Cowles, pointed to the back table and said, “We’ve got coffee, water, and sandwiches. Whatever you want.”
    Harvath nodded and helped himself to a bottle of water and what looked like a turkey sandwich before grabbing a seat at the nicked-up conference table.
    As Cowles worked on hooking up his laptop to the