The Lions of Lucerne

by Brad Thor

  The director pulled a microcassette recorder from his inside breast pocket. “This call came into the FBI and was received at approximately eleven-thirty eastern time today. I think you’ll recognize one of the voices. The other was encrypted to disguise it, and the NSA is still trying to tear it apart. What’s interesting is that the caller bypassed the switchboard and got right in on a direct line.”

  At this point, nothing about the kidnappers was surprising Harvath.

  Jameson pressed the play button, and after several seconds of static hiss, they heard the voice of Gary Lawlor. “Lawlor.”

  “Is this Deputy Director Lawlor?” came the cyborg-sounding voice.

  “That’s what I said. Who’s this?”

  A rustling sound could be heard, which Harvath assumed was Lawlor pushing himself back from his desk so he could make sure he was hitting the correct button to begin the trace on the call.

  “Who we are is not important, Mr. Lawlor. Who we have is what is important. Do you know who we have, Mr. Lawlor?”

  “I’ve had a lot of crackpots call me today. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  He’s doing a good job, thought Scot. Keep him talking.

  “No doubt, Agent Lawlor, you are tracing this call—”

  “Now, why would I do that? Traces ain’t cheap, and if I traced every call that came into my—”

  “Silence!” commanded the computerized voice. “We have business to discuss, and I will not have my time wasted with your pathetic FBI games.”

  “It’s your dime, pal. You called me, remember? Why don’t you cut to the chase and tell me what this is all about. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “‘The chase,’ exactly. An appropriate term for what you have been burdened with. By now you have received the envelope we sent to the director of the Secret Service containing the picture of your president, the newspaper, and our letter.

  “Before we do any serious bargaining for the return of your president, we would like a show of good faith from you.”

  “Good faith from us?” came Lawlor’s voice. “What kind of good faith?”

  “The United States has imprisoned two Islamic freedom fighters, Fawad Asa and Ali Amhed Raqim. They are to be released and flown—”

  “Daffy and Goofy, the Disneyland bombers? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Agent Lawlor, my people do not appreciate the lack of respect you have shown these men by assigning these ridiculous nicknames—”

  “Listen, buddy, we didn’t assign these guys anything but prison numbers. They earned those nicknames. They bomb Disneyland, and then one leaves his wallet while fleeing the scene and the other is actually dumb enough to join a class-action suit against Disneyland for the damages he suffered from the bombs he himself was a party to planting.”

  “Agent Lawlor, I will not repeat myself. The men are to be released and placed on a plane to Tripoli in Libya. Secondly, the Egyptian government has frozen assets of the Abu Nidal Organization in cash and property worth over four million dollars U.S. These are to be released immediately. Once you have met these conditions, we will speak again.”

  “This could take some time. I don’t have that kind of authority. Besides, how do I know that the president is alive?”

  “You don’t. Good-bye.”

  There was the sound of the kidnapper breaking the connection, and the director hit the stop button on the tape.

  Scot looked at the two men sitting across from him. “So that’s it, then. Abu Nidal’s people have the president, and they are going to use him to blackmail us into helping them rebuild their organization?”

  “Not according to the vice president,” said the director. “He’s running the show now. Once the demand came in, the president’s cabinet met and the wheels were set in motion to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment of the Constitution transferring all powers to Vice President Marshfield until a point at which the president will hopefully be able to reclaim them.”

  “Marshfield didn’t waste any time, did he? Has he set up shop at the White House yet?” asked Scot.

  “That was one of his first executive actions,” said the director.

  “I bet Shaw’s having a hell of a time dealing with him.”

  Though he was widely perceived by outsiders as a savvy political reformer, those who knew the real Adam Marshfield knew he was nothing more than a self-aggrandizing narcissist who had achieved his political success solely through manipulation of the media and public opinion. The only reason he had made it onto Jack Rutledge’s ticket was that he was well liked by the majority of the uninformed general public and his presence was considered to give the party its best shot at securing Rutledge’s bid for the White House.

  “As of right now, Agent Harvath, as much as many don’t like him, Vice President Adam Marshfield is our acting president and commander in chief of the armed forces.”

  Harvath thought he noticed General Venrick wince.

  “And of course once word got to the FBI about the package you had received, Lawlor hightailed it back from Park City,” said Scot.

  “Exactly.”

  “Director Jameson, how do you suppose the kidnappers obtained the routing codes to get a package right to your desk and also the direct-dial number straight into Lawlor’s office?” Scot asked.

  “How do you think they did it?” the director parried back.

  “Unfortunately I think we’ve got a leak and a big one at that. I think this same leak might have given them the frequencies we were using so they could jam our communications while they snatched the president.”

  “I’d be inclined to agree,” said the director.

  “So would I,” said General Venrick. “Agent Harvath, like I said, I’ve reviewed your service record, and it’s pretty damn impressive. I know what an asset you were at the SEAL think tank, and I can imagine how you must feel having lost so many men on your watch.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Scot. “I appreciate that.”

  “What does your gut tell you on this one?”

  “Well, General, at first, when they found that Middle Eastern guy face down in the snow, my gut said there’s no way a Middle Eastern group could be behind this. There’s no way they could get the amount of personnel and equipment they would need into Utah without being noticed.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked the general.

  “Sir, I saw three African-Americans the entire time I was there, and they were all fellow Secret Service agents. Utah’s about as white-bread a place as you can get. The people there notice outsiders. Sure, there’s a couple of growing minority communities in Salt Lake City, but Middle Easterners would stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “Apparently, there was at least one. We’ve got his body to prove it,” said the director.

  “Yeah, but now he bothers me even more. Here we find this guy dead with a Skorpion next to him. He’s a PLO long gun, and he’s found with a weapon that pretty much screams Liberate Palestine right from the get-go. It doesn’t fit. I mean, if he’s going to do that, why not have him in ‘I love Yasser’ undies? Besides, I can think of a hundred better offensive firearms he could have been using, none of which would have connected him to the Middle East.”

  “But, Agent Harvath, if you take one look at the man and can see he’s Middle Eastern, what difference does the Skorpion make?” asked the general.

  “Maybe it makes no difference at all. Why would the people on his team leave him behind? They must have known we would be able to ID him quickly and be on their trail,” said Harvath.

  “But,” interjected the director, “it did take us a while to dig his body out from the avalanche.”

  “It’s all true and it all makes sense, but you asked me what my gut says and it says there’s no way a Middle Eastern group pulled off something this complicated.”

  “Agent Harvath, isn’t that a little prejudiced?” asked the general.

  “PC or not, Middle Eastern groups, including Abu Nidal’s, ar
e not tacticians. They walk into nightclubs strapped with explosives, plant car bombs, spray crowded markets with machine-gun fire, and fly hijacked planes full of fuel into buildings. Plain and simple, they’re cowards. They won’t confront anyone on a one-to-one basis. They don’t have the savvy or the courage to do in-your-face operations.”

  “Suppose, just for a moment,” offered the general, “that the reason Abu Nidal and the FRC have disappeared for so long is because they have been training for this exact scenario. One of the biggest coups in the history of terrorism—something right up there with September eleventh.”

  “I don’t buy it. Not for a second. This kind of training would have involved years of working in cold climates practicing skiing, mountaineering, and winter warfare tactics. To train and outfit a crew from the ground up on something like this would have been exorbitantly expensive.”

  “The FRC has a lot of money,” countered the director.

  “Supposedly. All I’ve heard is that one of their people got caught in January trying to pull out seven point five million dollars and that the Egyptians have got another four that belongs to them. So, that’s eleven point five they couldn’t lay their hands on.

  “That Korean jamming system, the ability to get inside information, the wherewithal to pull it off…I think we’re dealing with something and someone completely outside the realm of Middle Eastern terrorism.”

  “But why would the kidnappers send a note like this,” said the director, waving his photocopy, “making demands for the release of two convicted Islamic bombers with suspected FRC ties and the unfreezing of Abu Nidal’s assets?”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” acknowledged Harvath. “But if it was the FRC, how could they have recruited a known PLO sniper, even if he has been freelancing, when the FRC has killed some of the PLO’s most important members? Maybe the sniper was turned—I don’t know—but it creates more questions than it answers, and that makes me nervous.”

  “Me too,” said the general. “How about you, Stan?”

  After shoving the photocopy of the kidnappers’ note back into his folder, Director Jameson began massaging his temples. “Yeah, I’m nervous. The neatness of some of it is what scares me. I’m beginning to think tonight might not be such a good idea.”

  “What might not be such a good idea?” asked Harvath.

  “The FBI trace on that phone call today locked up. We got a fix on the location of the caller, but God help us if this is wrong,” said the director.

  “I don’t understand,” said Harvath.

  The general took a deep breath. “Vice President Marshfield, in accordance with the United States’ position of no negotiating with terrorists, has green-lighted a Special Ops team to attempt a rescue. We’re on our way to the situation room at the White House. The mission will launch in less than two hours.”

  “But they couldn’t have possibly gathered enough intel yet. They have no idea what that team will be walking into,” said Harvath.

  “That’s exactly what we’re afraid of,” said the general, “aren’t we, Stan?”

  30

  The White House situation room buzzed with noise, most of which came from Vice President Marshfield’s chief of staff, Edward DaFina. The VP had wasted no time moving himself and his people into the power positions in the White House, and DaFina had bullied anyone who resisted or resented the changing of the guard. He was a perfect example of a man who sought power solely to lord it over others.

  Because of his background and top secret clearance, Harvath had been invited to attend a comprehensive tactical briefing with the general. He spent two hours listening to the general and his staff discuss the makeup of the JSOC team and the reliability of their intelligence. The insertion and extraction methods were reviewed, and as the team would be supported by Israeli intelligence, the makeup and components on that end were gone over as well.

  Several recent security and communications enhancements at the White House made it possible to use the situation room as a command-and-control center for the mission. Using the sit room, as it was known, meant that not only could the vice president preside at the head of the table in the high-backed leather chair reserved for the president, but all of the players would come to him. The idea of getting the Washington establishment used to seeing him in power greatly appealed to Marshfield’s ego, and so he was adamant that the main command center for observing the operation be the White House.

  The directors of the FBI, CIA, and Secret Service had grudgingly agreed, only with the caveat that NSA and CIA headquarters be kept available on open lines. If the satellite picture went down, the consensus among those truly in the know was that the White House’s redundant backup systems were not entirely fail-safe and might not be something to count upon.

  As Harvath entered the sit room behind General Venrick, he quickly glanced around, assessing those assembled. The aforementioned directors of the various agencies were present, accompanied by their aides. JSOC brass who hadn’t shuttled to the Mediterranean to be on-site were in attendance. Harvath was well acquainted with several of those present, and he nodded in their direction as he caught their eyes. There were also other military and governmental personnel present whom no one bothered to introduce.

  Scanning the long cherry-wood table, Harvath saw Gary Lawlor and at first thought the comment that rang out from that end of the room had come from him.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” asked the voice.

  As Scot focused upon a group of people who were not seated, General Venrick said, “I believe Agent Harvath can be of service to us in this operation, and I have asked him to join us.”

  “From what I hear, the only person Agent Harvath seems to be of service to is himself, that is, when he is not being of service to CNN. And he was considered such an impediment that our own deputy director of the FBI had to have him removed from the case.” The man stepped away from the group and leaned on the far end of the table. Scot could see him clearly now, Edward DaFina.

  Director Jameson piped up before anyone had a chance to respond. It was obvious that there was no love lost between the two. “That is all still under investigation, DaFina, and you know it.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Secret Service did succeed in losing the president, didn’t it? I mean, that’s why we’re all here, right?”

  Scot had never been one to let others fight his own battles. “Chief of Staff DaFina, I personally knew every single one of the Secret Service agents who died trying to protect the president and his daughter. As a matter of fact, from what I saw in Park City, had I not been retasked to Goldilocks’s detail, there’s probably no doubt she and I would be among the dead as well. So considering that you have absolutely zero idea of what the Secret Service has been through and what we go through on a daily basis, I suggest you get to the point. If you have one.”

  Gary Lawlor shook his head and began to massage his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He hadn’t been able to believe it when Harvath arrived with General Venrick and the Secret Service director. The kid had as many lives as a cat. Somehow, somewhere, someone had decided to cut him some more slack, but once again he was quickly hanging himself with it. Lawlor was still upset about what had transpired in Park City and was not going to stick his neck out to help defend the headstrong Secret Service agent anymore. Harvath was completely on his own as far as Lawlor was concerned.

  “My point, Agent Harvath,” said DaFina, warming to the challenge, “is that you and your agency were charged with a task and you failed. Failed miserably, I might add. To compound the damage, you tampered with no less than three related crime scenes and, until I am convinced otherwise, leaked sensitive information to the press. That is my point.”

  “This is a bunch of bullshit,” said the general. Anyone who had sheepishly been listening to the exchange, pretending not to hear it, now turned his or her eyes toward the man who had drawn himself to his full height. “None of this has any bearing on why we�
�re all here. We have asked Agent Harvath to come along because of his vast antiterrorist experience and in the hopes that as one of the sole survivors of the kidnapping, he might be able to help us shed more light on what we are facing and what we will do going forward.”

  “‘Going forward’?” asked DaFina. “General, you don’t sound as if you believe this operation tonight will be successful. Why is that?”

  “Why is that? It’s because we haven’t had sufficient time to gather the appropriate intelligence to mount an effective recovery.”

  “General, when this whole thing blew, were you or were you not involved in our strategic assessment meeting?”

  “I was, but—”

  “General, you were the one person who advocated moving as fast as we could as soon as we had reliable information to act upon—”

  “Mr. DaFina, that’s the last time you are going to interrupt me. As far as what I said, you seem to have ignored the fact that the word I used was reliable.”

  Unfazed, DaFina continued, “General Venrick, I don’t know how much more specific you need your information to be. One of the kidnappers, a freelance Middle Eastern sniper who often worked for pro-Palestinian liberation groups, was found dead at the scene. We received proof that some organization does indeed have the president, and then they asked for the release of two Islamic terrorists with suspected FRC connections who are being held in this country. When their ransom demand was phoned into the FBI, we were able to pinpoint where it came from. What more do you need?”

  “What more does he need?” interjected Harvath. “For starters, how about intelligence that the phone that was used is actually in the same location the president is being held?”

  “Agent Harvath,” said DaFina, “I don’t really care for your opinion, but I’ll answer you anyway. The Israeli Mossad has assets throughout Lebanon and in particular the area we’re concentrating on. The Syrian government also has its sources—”

  “The Syrians?” It was now the CIA director’s chance to interject. “You contacted the Syrians without consulting with my office first?”