by Brad Thor
Glancing up from her laptop, she saw Scot coming down the narrow hallway. “Well, someone’s been a busy boy today.”
“Very funny.”
“Who’s being funny?”
“Yuk, yuk, yuk…Any news?”
“We got a couple of breaks.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Well, we got a confirmation back on the Middle Easterner. Name’s Hassan Useff. The Mossad ID’d him. He was a freelance sniper who worked for many of the pro-Palestinian-liberation groups, in particular some of the more radical splinter factions of the PLO. He had been tied to several high-profile assassinations in Israel.”
“Hmmm,” said Scot. “Well, that does and doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“The weapon he was found with was a Skorpion. It makes sense in that the Skorpion is one of the preferred weapons of the PLO, but it’s predominantly a defensive weapon. The long-range accuracy isn’t that good. And because it’s so small, on fully automatic it’s more of an S and P.”
“S and P?”
“Sorry, it’s a term from my past. S and P means ‘spray and pray.’ The Skorpion cuts a wide swath when it’s set to full auto, and the shooter just sprays bullets and prays he hits his target. You know, a room broom.”
“But what if it wasn’t set on fully auto?”
“Well, it can hold a ten-to-twenty-round magazine, but why wouldn’t a sniper use a more accurate and dependable weapon?”
“Maybe he had one and his buddies took it with them.”
“And, what, left him with a weapon that screams PLO? It doesn’t make sense.” Scot took a seat next to Agent Palmer as his eyes glazed over in thought.
“When you were in the SEALs, didn’t you ever carry any American-made weaponry?”
His mind half on what Palmer had said and half somewhere else, Scot answered, “It depended on the mission, but we would never leave one of our men or any of our equipment behind. In and out without trace was our M.O.”
“You know, I once dated a SEAL, and if he had applied the same policies to my bathroom, instead of leaving behind a minefield of wet towels and toilet seats in the up position, we might still be together.” Palmer laughed, trying to help lift the intense mood Scot had slipped into, but it didn’t work.
“You like chocolate, right?”
“Show me a woman who doesn’t,” answered Palmer.
“And all that stuff you brought back from your trip to Europe last year—”
“You mean the chocolate that I brought back and left in the duty room at the White House that you piglets wolfed down and didn’t even leave me a piece of?”
“Yeah, that would be the chocolate I’m talking about.”
“What about it?”
“Where’d you get it? I mean, did you buy it at the duty free, or did you go to specialty shops?”
“Let me see. I kind of bought it all over. I was traveling by train on one of those Eurail passes, and it was nice to have it to snack on. I just picked it up here and there.”
“Any place in particular?”
Palmer tried to jog her memory. “I started my trip in Belgium, and since they’re really known for their chocolate, I think I bought a good supply at a shop across the street from the train station. That lasted me through France, and when I got to Austria, I picked up some Mozart’s Balls.”
“‘Mozart’s Balls’?”
“When you say it in German, it’s not as dirty.”
“And, after Austria?”
“Ah, let me think, after Austria…Oh, yeah. After Austria, I went to Switzerland. They are really famous for chocolate, but I think it’s more like milk chocolate they’re famous for. The Belgians do lots of fancy things with chocolate, but not so much the Swiss. The Belgians would put chocolate on a cheeseburger and try to sell it, while the Swiss really seem to like milk chocolate bars. Next, I went to Italy and they had those awesome Baci Balls—”
“Sorry, back up a sec.”
“What?”
“About the Swiss. Nestlé is a Swiss chocolate maker, right?”
“Yeah. They make Nestlé Crunch bars and I think that Coffee-mate creamer stuff.”
“Right, those are a couple of the products we have here in the States, but what about in Europe?”
“In Switzerland, they make tons of different products. They make chocolate, but they also make things like baby food.”
“Let’s stick with the chocolate.”
“Fine, from what I saw in Switzerland, there were lots of different varieties of Nestlé chocolate.”
“And if they were going to import, or try a particular brand here in the U.S., they would probably give the chocolate a name in English, right?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Take something like Toblerone or Baci, neither of them changed their names when they exported to the U.S. from Europe. But those are one of those deals where the European company has built its entire identity around that one brand. The identity is the name of the chocolate, so they don’t change it. If there were a Nestlé product that was kind of known in Switzerland, but not super famous, I think they would have their marketing people here come up with a new name for it. Let’s face it, the U.S. market for fine chocolate with foreign-sounding names has got to be a lot smaller than the market for something like Snickers.”
“That’s a good point.”
“Hey, I didn’t get to where I am by being stupid,” said Palmer with another warm smile. “I’m beginning to worry about you, though. Let’s get off this chocolate subject. I’m sure Nestlé has a web site. It’ll either be a dot-com or a dot-Ch, for Switzerland.”
“Thanks, Palmer. I appreciate it,” said Scot, standing to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“I haven’t had anything to eat since that wonderful breakfast you cooked me this morning. I was thinking about walking down to the restaurant at the Silver Lake Lodge to grab a bowl of chili.”
“Want some company? I could probably take my break a little early.”
“No, thanks anyway. I need to be alone and get some things straight.”
“I understand. Stick your head in when you get back.”
“Okay.”
Scot quickly shut the door of the Winnebago behind him, so as not to let too much cold air in and piss off the other agents inside. As he reached the bottom step, he heard the door open behind him.
Palmer peeked her head around the door. “There was one other thing. There might not be a connection, but an ambulance was found abandoned on the west side of the valley over by the Kennecot Copper Mine.”
“Really? Had it been reported stolen?”
“No, the report didn’t come in until after it was discovered.”
“Where was it stolen from?”
Responding to the shouts of the agents inside, Palmer closed the door behind her and walked down the stairs to where Scot was standing.
“It was stolen from a mechanic’s shop called Grunnah Automotive. Apparently, Mr. Grunnah had towed the ambulance in on Saturday—”
“Towed? What was wrong with it?”
“There was a problem with the brake line, so Mr. Grunnah towed it into his garage Saturday afternoon and told the ambulance company he wouldn’t be able to get to it until Monday. He was closed Sunday and claims that it must have been stolen between when he closed Saturday night and when he opened up again this morning.”
“How does somebody drive an ambulance that was in such bad shape it had to be towed to the mechanic’s in the first place?”
“Mr. Grunnah says it was fixed.”
“Fixed? I thought you said Grunnah told the ambulance company he couldn’t get to it until Monday.”
“That’s exactly right. Grunnah says whoever stole it fixed it first.”
“Seems like a lot of work to go through for a joyride,” said Scot.
“For a joyride, yes. But, it’s not a l
ot of work if you want a getaway vehicle that you can drive as fast as you want with no risk of being stopped by the police.”
“I’m sure the FBI will come to the same conclusion. Thanks for the update.”
Palmer turned and went back to the Winnebago as Scot made his way up the driveway toward the security gate and the main road down to the lodge. Passing through, he saw an ambulance parked adjacent to the driveway. Scot had never noticed before, but the body of the ambulance was very similar to a truck’s, with a high shell over the bed. Looking down, he saw that while the tires in front were singles, the ones in back had been doubled to bear the extra weight.
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, but the picture was still no closer to being complete.
26
Knowing that there would be a baying pack of newshounds at the bottom of the road, Scot turned into the woods where he could cut across a nearby ski slope and hopefully walk the rest of the way unassaulted.
The peace, quiet, and cold air actually did him some good. His mind had been spinning since he had awakened that morning, trying to assimilate and process each new piece of information heaped on top of the last. The break from not thinking was refreshing. He watched some of the skiers coming down the slope as he walked along its edge. Though the avalanche had claimed a handful of civilian lives, it hadn’t seemed to stop most people from pursuing the rest of their vacations. Human nature never ceased to amaze him. People would ski all day as if they were a million miles away and then gather around TVs in the lodge afterward saying how terrible it was that the president still had not been located.
Cooking aromas wafted uphill from the Silver Lake Lodge and into Scot’s nose, sending a signal to his stomach, which started to grumble on cue. Chili in a bread bowl with a cup of hot chocolate would probably cost eleven bucks at the midmountain resort restaurant, but so what?
Coming downhill from this angle, he could make out Nick and Vance’s office on the far side of the restaurant. There was another favor they could do for him, but it could wait until after lunch.
Scot’s training had become second nature, and he never entered a room without scanning it completely, as he did now in the restaurant. He noted each exit, the placement of the windows, and what was beyond them. Though the large log dining room sat hundreds of people, he scanned the faces and builds of everyone within his line of sight. It was habit, and it had saved his life and those of his charges more times than he cared to admit. Harvath would walk into the rec room of a senior center in his nineties, if he was lucky to live that long, and size up each and every potential enemy, his mind engaged in reflex threat assessment.
Grabbing a tray, Scot fell in line behind a raucous bunch of Germans who had raced to get into the food corral before him. He remembered a story one of the guys on the Swedish ski team had told when they were practicing for an event in Germany. Scot had been complaining that at the lift lines it seemed as if it was every German man, woman, and child for themselves and that more than once he had come close to punching someone out for skiing right over his skis or cutting in front of him while he waited patiently for his turn. The Swede laughed and told him that was why everyone in Sweden called the Germans the Liftwaffa. Scott said the word under his breath as the boisterousness of the men in front of him grew.
When he finally got to the steam table, he ordered chili in a bread bowl with onions and extra cheese. Next he ordered a hot chocolate, and when the woman pointed to a coffee bar across the room with an equally long line, he opted for a milk. That they would make you stand in a completely separate line for hot chocolate made no sense, but all Scot wanted to do was eat, so he paid his bill and wandered into the sea of tables, hoping to find a vacant one for himself.
As luck would have it, a couple was getting up as Scot approached. Arguing about some problem they hadn’t been able to leave at home when they set out on their vacation, neither heard Scot thank them for the table as he sat down.
He closed his eyes and bent over the bread bowl, inhaling the scent of the chili. With spoon in hand, he shoveled out a large bite, placed it in his mouth, and leaned back in the chair to savor the smoky flavor.
“Hi, there. I’m Jody Burnis. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
It was not so much a request, as a statement. She moved fast and took Scot completely off guard. The sparkly little blond who jumped into the chair opposite him uninvited, had reporter written all over her. “I’m from CNN, and—”
“No comment,” said Scot as he took another bite of his chili.
“But I haven’t even asked you any questions yet.”
“But you will, and I don’t care what they are. I have no comment.”
“You’re Scot Harvath, aren’t you? Former U.S. freestyle skier turned Secret Service agent?”
“No comment.”
“C’mon. I’m just trying to do my job.”
“And I mine.”
“You know, you guys don’t own the president. The American people do.”
That was the first time Scot had ever heard that one. It was patently ridiculous, and he had to struggle to keep from shooting the milk he was drinking out his nose when he laughed. “Lady—”
“Please, call me Jody.”
“As I was saying, lady. No comment.”
“What can you tell me about the avalanche?”
“It was made of snow and came from the top of a mountain.”
“You’re real cute, you know that?” she asked.
“And real hungry. Why don’t you go find someone else to bother?”
“Am I really bothering you?”
“Yes.”
The young reporter leaned in close to Scot with an intent look on her face and kept nodding her head as if she were listening to something.
“Do you have some sort of problem?” Scot asked her. At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye he saw the reporter flash someone a hand signal. She must have a cameraman.
Scot turned and, sure enough, two tables back was a man with a Betacam over his shoulder shooting the two of them talking. Noticing the lav microphone clipped to her jacket, Scot leaned over and plucked it from her.
“Hey!” she shouted.
“Zip it, lady,” he told her, and then, holding the microphone as close as he could to his mouth without swallowing it, he began making strange and very loud animal calls. Behind him, he heard the cameraman yell, and Harvath turned just in time to see him swat the headphones from his head. The volume at which Scot had been making all that noise must have been extremely painful.
He turned his attention back to the reporter. “You’ll probably want a release of some sort, so let me give you one. You absolutely, positively do not have my permission to use me, my name, or my likeness in any activity whatsoever. If I see my face on TV or hear my voice, I will sue your pretty little ass and your network for all it’s worth. Am I clear?” He punctuated his last words by throwing the tiny microphone back at her.
“Crystal,” she said, rising in a huff and going over to her cameraman. “Gene? Are you okay?”
“What’s that guy’s problem, man?” from the cameraman was the last thing Scot heard as the two made their way toward the exit. Unbeknownst to Scot, Agent Zuschnitt not only had witnessed the entire exchange, but had orchestrated it. And upon its completion, he quietly slipped out one of the dining room’s many side doors.
Twenty minutes later, Scot had finished his chili, two large cookies, and another milk. Feeling satiated, even a little sleepy, he left the restaurant and headed over to the wing that contained the avalanche control office. The first person he saw there was Nick Slattery.
“Whoa, hold on there a second, dude. The favor bank is closed,” said Nick.
“Hello, pal. Whaddya know?” said Scot with a broad smile.
“What do I know? I know that I’ve had my ass torn off by no less than five people in the last two hours, four of whom were carrying guns at the time. I don’t know you anymore, man.”
“That isn’t any way to treat our friend, Nick,” said Vance, who pushed past Scot and entered the office carrying a cup of hot cocoa.
“Is that…?” asked Scot.
“Cocoa? Yeah,” replied Vance.
“How long’d you have to stand in line for it?”
“Stand in line? Psssah. I’m an important guy here. I don’t stand in line for cocoa. Gimme a fucking break. You want one?”
“I’d love one,” said Scot.
“Nick, would you mind shagging Scot a cup of cocoa? You can leave it on the desk in the outer office and then take a walk. I’m happy to help this guy because he’s my friend and we’ve got a history, but there’s no need for you to be involved any further.”
“If anybody asks, I was getting the cocoa for me and then decided to take a walk to the ski patrol office,” said Nick.
“Whatever you want, man. Thanks,” said Vance as Nick turned and left the office.
“Did you guys get it that bad?” asked Scot once the door had closed behind Nick.
“It wasn’t pretty, but I did just what you said.”
“What I said? What’d I say?”
“To blame you.”
“Hey, wait a second. I said I would take full responsibility.”
“Same thing. I told Nick to keep his mouth shut, and I did all the talking.”
“Do you find it funny that I’m not grateful?”
“Nick needs this job a hell of a lot more than I do, as is currently being evidenced by the fact that I am even talking to you. Now, I take it you came here for more than hot chocolate.”
“Yeah, I need another favor.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve the helicopter.”
Scot winced. “That pilot was great. How bad they give it to him?”
“He’s working an oil-rig chopper in the Arctic Circle”—Vance paused for effect, looking at his watch—“starting right about, now.”
“Get outta here.”
“I’m just foolin’. He kept his mouth shut when the FBI guys and the sheriff chewed him out for taking the scenic route and interfering with a federal investigation. But when our boss launched into him, he told him to go screw himself.”