The Lions of Lucerne

by Brad Thor

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Technically, the guy’s retired, and he does this job during the season for fun. He needs his job even less than I need mine, plus he hates the boss with a passion. He told me to thank you.”

  “Thank me?”

  “Yeah, says it was the most fun he’s had in a long time.”

  “Well, I was glad to be of service. Listen, about that favor I need,” Scot continued.

  “What can I do you for?”

  “Do you have a computer in here that can access the Net?”

  “Of course.”

  “I need to use it.”

  “Sure, sit right here, and be my guest,” said Vance, motioning to the chair next to him.

  “I need to use it alone,” said Scot.

  “Dude, no way. If the boss finds out that my machine has been used to surf the porno sites, then I am definitely out of here.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “All right, I can see that now is no time for levity. How long do you need it for?”

  “Probably no longer than a half hour. Forty-five minutes tops.”

  “I can leave you alone in this office, but I’ve gotta stay in the outer office in case we get a call.”

  “Thanks, Vance. I appreciate it. Do me one more favor, would ya?”

  “What?”

  “Close the door behind you on the way out.”

  27

  Considering the ordeal he had been through, it was no wonder Harvath was tired. Vance could see his friend was not only exhausted, but also still in a lot of pain. When Scot came out of his office and thanked him for the use of the computer, Vance handed him his now less-than-hot hot chocolate and arranged for one of the ski patrollers to take him back up to Snow Haven via snowmobile.

  Harvath had the driver go around the outside to avoid the reporters. When he arrived parallel with the compound, he thanked the patroller as two Secret Service agents waved him on through to the main house. His fatigue weighed on him. He had been trained to go for days with no sleep if necessary, but he had also been taught that sleep was a powerful weapon. Sleep helped keep your mind razor-sharp, and at this point his wasn’t.

  As he approached the kitchen door, he saw several agents stomping out cigarettes, cutting their break short to return inside. Knowing something must be up, Scot hastened his steps and entered the house not far behind them. Most of the agents were gathered around a large-screen TV in the AV room.

  The TV was tuned to CNN, and as Scot entered, CNN’s Live Special Report logo was just fading down and the anchor said a few words before introducing a reporter in the field. Scot’s stomach tightened when he saw who it was. A bad feeling crept over him, and he let out a low moan that was overheard by several of the agents standing next to him.

  “Thank you, Richard. As you know this country and the rest of the world has been holding its breath as the search for President Jack Rutledge continues amid the snow and ice from Sunday afternoon’s avalanche here in Park City, where the president was enjoying a ski vacation with his sixteen-year-old daughter, Amanda. All of these efforts, though, may be in vain.”

  A collective intake of breath could be heard throughout the room. The images on screen went from Jody Burnis at the bottom of a ski hill with cranes and rescue equipment in the background, to the interior of the Silver Lake Lodge. The camera angle showed Jody speaking to a man whose back was to the camera and whose face was partially obscured from view. Most people watching would not know whom she was interviewing, but unfortunately, anyone who knew Scot could tell it was him.

  Jody’s narrative continued. “According to sources close to and within the Secret Service, CNN has learned that the avalanche that claimed the lives of over two dozen Secret Service agents and six civilians, all now confirmed dead, and which has sparked a massive search-and-rescue effort to recover any remaining survivors, including the president, apparently was no accident.

  “Our sources tell us that the avalanche was created as a diversion in order to facilitate the kidnapping of the president of the United States. Of course at this point neither the Secret Service, the FBI, nor the White House will confirm or deny these reports, but we will of course keep you up to speed and bring you further information as we have it….”

  The chili in Scot’s stomach turned, and he could taste bile. That reporter had used him, but why? Why him? If she was going to fake an interview with a source within the Secret Service, why didn’t she just use a production assistant or something? If you were going to stray that far from the truth, what difference did it make? It made no sense. Had she interviewed him actually thinking he might give her something she could use and then, after their unpleasant exchange, decided to use him anyway out of spite?

  Harvath walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. A couple of Secret Service agents who had been standing next to him in the AV room were right behind him. The expression on their faces said it all.

  Scot wasn’t about to let everyone think he had cooperated even for a second with CNN. “That interview was BS. I never told that reporter anything other than ‘no comment,’ so don’t come in here looking at me like that.”

  “Hey, Harvath,” said one of the agents, “we’re not looking at you like anything. We just came in to get some coffee. That’s it.”

  Scot shook his head in disgust and, taking his cup of coffee, walked out of the kitchen toward the front door. He needed to check the transport roster and see when the next team would be rotating out and going back to the hotels. Ever since the avalanche, all of the Secret Service vehicles had been reassigned on a priority basis. He needed to grab just a couple of hours of sleep and then he could start making sense out of things.

  As he walked the snowy path toward the command center, he thought to himself that the day couldn’t get much worse, but when the command center door flew open and Gary Lawlor stood staring out at him, he knew he had been sorely mistaken.

  Lawlor was flanked by two large men whom Scot hadn’t seen before and suspected were also FBI agents. Lawlor’s face said everything. He was enraged but icy at the same time. It was a frightening juxtaposition. There was no doubt in Scot’s mind that it wouldn’t take much to push Lawlor into a full-on explosion. Standing here in front of all of his colleagues, the last thing Harvath wanted was to be ripped by the deputy director of the FBI, so he proceeded with extreme caution.

  “It looks like you saw the CNN piece,” said Scot as he walked toward him.

  “Don’t you move another inch!” yelled Lawlor, watching as Harvath came to an immediate stop. “Saw it? Yeah, I saw it. The whole world saw it.”

  “I can explain—”

  “I bet you can, but at this point I don’t care. You have compromised this investigation for the last time. I told you what would happen if you stepped out of line again, but you didn’t listen to me. You had to do it your way.”

  “My way? You’ve gotta be kidding me. I didn’t tell that reporter any—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Scot was losing his temper, and he began to raise his voice, “I don’t care if you want to hear it or not; you’re going to.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Agent Lawlor, if you just get ahold of the raw tape from that reporter, you’ll hear that I said nothing further than ‘no comment.’”

  “Agent Harvath, I don’t know what you said while the camera was rolling or when it wasn’t.”

  “But what would I stand to gain by compromising the investigation?”

  “I don’t know, Agent Harvath. Maybe you don’t like the way the FBI is handling this and want to push things along because you think you can do better.”

  “I want what you do.”

  “You’ve said that several times, but you don’t want to operate as a team player, and you don’t want to play by the rules—”

  “Play by the rules? Do you think the kidnappers played by the rules when they snatched the president?”
/>   “Agent Harvath, I’ve had enough, and so have your superiors.”

  “My superiors? What are you talking about?”

  “I have cut you more than enough slack. More than I should have. The little bit of rope you had left you just used to hang yourself with.”

  “Hang myself? But I told you, I had nothing to do with that CNN report.”

  “And I told you, I don’t care. As of”—Lawlor looked at his watch—“two minutes ago, you are officially recalled to D.C.”

  “You had me yanked? I can’t believe this.”

  “Believe it. Agents Patrasso and Sprecher here are to escort you back to the hotel, where you will collect your belongings and then proceed to Salt Lake City Airport. There will be a ticket at the Delta counter with your name on it. The agents will accompany you and make sure that the plane takes off with you on it. After that, you are no longer my problem.”

  Scot knew he was grasping at straws, but he tried anyway. “I’m sorry about what happened. You’re right. This needs to be a team effort. I was just out of it, but I’ll pull it together. This is your investigation, and I will respect that. I’ve already come up with several theories that I think are worth taking a look at, so why don’t we—”

  “Too late. I warned you, and you didn’t listen. It’s out of my hands.”

  Really reaching, Scot went for the medical angle. “I haven’t gotten my CT and MRI scans yet with Dr. Trawick. We’re supposed to do it tomorrow afternoon and then he can clear me to travel.”

  “Screw Dr. Trawick. I’m clearing you to travel. If you can beat the stuffing out of one of my agents, rappel down a sheer rock face, commandeer a helicopter and fly to Midway, plus give CNN interviews, then you’re fine to travel.”

  “I told you, I didn’t say anything to that reporter.”

  “And I told you, I don’t care. Patrasso and Sprecher are going to take you to get your things, and then you are going to the airport and getting on the next plane to D.C. What you do once you’re there is somebody else’s problem. Now, get out of here,” Lawlor said, turning and going back into the command center.

  Scot looked from Patrasso to Sprecher and realized they were a pair it probably wouldn’t be wise to mess with. He had a feeling Lawlor had instructed them to use any means necessary to get him on that plane. Frankly, he was too tired to try to resist.

  What is the name of your hotel? had been one of Dr. Trawick’s memory questions the night before. Even seeing the hotel’s name now, on the big sign outside, didn’t ring any bells. He really had hurt his head.

  Patrasso and Sprecher accompanied him to his room, where he packed, and then took him to the airport.

  The flight back to D.C. was the quickest he had ever had. Despite his headache, he slept the entire way.

  28

  André Martin struggled against the laundry cord digging into his wrists, then let his muscles go limp. He had to stay calm. Focus on your breathing, he told himself. The gag in his mouth tasted like shoe polish, and a strong smell of mildew rose from the stained floor beneath him. All he wanted to do was vomit, but he knew for sure if he did, he would choke on it and die. He kept reminding himself to be calm. There has to be a way out of this, he thought. It had better come soon, though. The uncomfortable hog-tie position in which he was restrained threatened to drive him insane. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what had happened.

  When Senator Snyder had opened the door to the shower, André hadn’t seen the hypodermic in his hand. By the time he did, it was too late. The tranquilizer worked extremely fast. Considering the difference in their sizes, deception was the only advantage Snyder had over his taller and more muscular victim.

  In a strange sort of way, had he but known it, this had been André’s lucky day. The senator’s schedule was tightly packed, and with all the events of the last fourteen hours, he didn’t have time for any diversions, especially a killing and the requisite disposal of the body. This was something he wanted time to savor. He also wanted to know how much his young lover knew.

  Snyder didn’t have the time to put all of the pieces together then, but lately something about André Martin had begun to bother him. Call it a feeling. Senator Snyder put a lot of stock in his intuition, especially when it was telegraphing danger signals.

  Snyder had tried to rationalize his fears, thinking that as he was getting older he was getting more paranoid, but he knew this wasn’t true. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The older he got, the more attuned to his senses he had become. That morning, not wanting to appear suspicious, Snyder could glance over his shoulder only so many times in the taxicab on the way to Rolander’s house. Although he couldn’t have proved it, he knew he was being followed.

  When he returned home to Georgetown, the entry hall was perfectly dry, but the mudroom at the rear entrance to the house was a different story. There was water there, even though someone had done their best to mop up. Snyder knew that person could only have been André Martin.

  Snyder was also sure André had been listening in on his phone call with Agent Zuschnitt. When he’d hung up the phone, he had done so by depressing the switch hook so he could place another call to his office. André had not been fast enough in replacing the handset in the upstairs bedroom, and Snyder had heard him hang up. Those two pieces of evidence were enough to seal Martin’s fate.

  From inside a false champagne split stored in the wet bar fridge of his den, Snyder removed the hypo and its potent drug. Minutes later he was at the shower door. With the thick steam and Snyder’s quick moves, André never had a chance of avoiding the needle.

  Like a cat playing with a mouse, Snyder couldn’t deny himself the opportunity of toying with André. While he waited for the drug to take full effect, he asked him why he had followed him and why he had listened in on the phone call. To his credit, André was quite clever.

  “You’ve been distant lately. You seem preoccupied with something or someone else,” said André, his muscles growing extremely weak, his eyes showing his terror despite their heavy lids. He knew what Snyder was capable of. He struggled to gather all of his faculties to present the strongest argument he could, but the fog of the drug was pulling him down with ever increasing speed. “I thought you might be seeing someone on the side. Why else would you leave the house in the middle of the night like you did?”

  “What I do, my little André,” said Snyder as he yanked Martin’s hair to lift his head from where it had slumped against his chest, “is my business. I am a senator, you know, and have very important business at all times of the day and night.”

  André tried desperately to convince him, though he knew he wasn’t buying it. “I…I love you and I couldn’t bear the thought of you with someone else. I’ve always been the jealous type.”

  “Then why didn’t you confront me with it?”

  “I was afraid. I wanted to be sure that you were really seeing someone else first. I didn’t want to look stupid if I was wrong.”

  “Is that really it? Or do you have another reason for following me? What else have you seen?”

  Snyder had turned off the water after he had injected him, and André now sat on the floor of the shower stall. The drugged man’s mouth hung slack, and a silvery stream of drool ran from the left-hand corner.

  The senator slapped him to get his attention. “What about the telephone call I received this morning? What do you have to say about that?”

  André laughed lightly and was mumbling something quietly to himself.

  Snyder slapped him again, harder this time. He had used too much of the drug. He hadn’t seen it work like this before. It was no problem, though. When he returned home tonight, his victim would be willing to tell him anything. Of that he was sure.

  He tried slapping André one more time. “What do you have to say?”

  The mumbling continued, and the senator barked at him to speak up. When he did, Snyder was enraged.

  “A little prick in the shower, that’s all it was. T
hat’s all he was. A little prick from a little prick with a little prick,” said André as he started laughing to himself once again.

  Snyder landed a blow to the side of his head, which stopped the laughing, as André Martin fell unconscious.

  29

  Because Scot had expected to be returning on Air Force One, he hadn’t worried about how he would get home from the airport. As usual, on his departure one of the junior agents had picked him up at his apartment and driven him to Washington National, and he half expected to see another agent waiting to pick him up now. But there was nobody at the gate or outside the baggage claim. Both his beeper and his cell phone were on, but neither was vibrating to tell him he had a ride waiting. He knew this was because there was no ride.

  Convinced Lawlor was somehow behind it all, Scot shouldered his bags and walked to the cab stand. After twenty minutes in line, his turn came and he hopped into a cab and headed for his apartment in Alexandria. Scrolling through his digital phone list, he found the number for Big Tony’s and hit the send button.

  The cabdriver waited while Scot went inside to pick up his pizza and a six-pack of Kirin beer. Tony’s had Alexandria’s best selection of imported beers and takeout pizza. The delicious smell of deep-dish pie rising through the box was a welcome change from the less-than-appetizing smell that had been rising off his cabdriver. When they reached his apartment building, Scot paid the driver and asked for a receipt. He made a mental note to put the ride on his Secret Service expenses. While he was at it, he’d throw in the bill for the beer and pizza too. What did he have to lose? Besides, even a condemned man gets a last meal.

  Struggling with the bags, the pizza, and the six-pack of beer, Harvath managed to unlock the entrance door and push it the rest of the way open with his hip. The building manager had been collecting his mail for him, but it was too late to knock on her door now, so he climbed the old wooden stairs to his apartment. The bills can wait until tomorrow.