by Brad Thor
Thanking the director, Scot closed the door of the limo, turned the collar of his trench coat up against the rain, and didn’t bother to open his umbrella for the short run up the pavement to the front entrance. He ignored his mailbox and took the stairs slowly, his headache not having abated much in the past several hours. At his door, he checked that the brown hair was exactly where he had left it. It was. He took it down, removed the keys from his pocket, and let himself in.
The apartment looked exactly the same. Why he expected it to be any different, he didn’t know. Sometimes he mused about how nice it would be to have someone waiting on the other side of the door when he came home, someone friendly. His lifestyle had never been conducive to long-term relationships. In the SEALs he could be mobilized at a moment’s notice and be gone for months at a time without any warning. He had watched a lot of Special Operations guys go through painful and messy divorces. The simplest answer for Scot was to just avoid getting too serious with anyone. Casual relationships were a lot easier. And it had never been tough finding women who wanted to be with him—temporarily.
Several women in Scot’s life had liked him enough to press him on committing to a deeper relationship. None of them ever understood why he soon thereafter broke things off or, more often, just faded away. As difficult as it was for him, he believed that was easier in the long run.
While his hectic life had calmed down a lot since retasking to the Secret Service, it was still unpredictable, and after all, old habits, especially those of the heart, really did die hard.
Scot continued to reflect on bachelorhood as he hung his trench coat and took off his suit. Putting on a dark blue sweat suit with the word Navy written in yellow across the chest and on the upper-left thigh, he decided a little light exercise might do him some good. He put on a pair of Nikes, exited his apartment, and headed downstairs.
With the building’s history of less-than-stellar tenants and more than one break-in, the landlady was extremely glad to have Secret Service agent Scot Harvath living in one of her apartments. He had not needed to ask her twice about using a small corner of the relatively empty basement as a place to set up his exercise equipment.
The workout was slow going. Harvath spent the first twenty minutes doing some light stretching. The exercises allowed him to assess the damage that had been done to his body and how well he was healing. While he was still tremendously sore, he knew that a lot of the stiffness he felt could be relieved by working out. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he could jump right back into his routine, so he knocked down the normal amounts he lifted to sixty percent. He remembered Dr. Helsabeck’s warnings not to exacerbate his symptoms through stress or physical exertion, so he made sure not to push things too hard. His muscles burned. The familiar sensation felt good and helped take his mind off of his headache, both the one between his ears and the one that came between paychecks—his job.
Harvath finished his workout with forty-five minutes on the treadmill. The mindless repetition of jogging on the inclined belt allowed him to be lost in exercise-induced euphoria for just a little while longer. Returning to his apartment, he noticed the new-call light blinking on his caller ID box. As he crossed the living room to pick up his cordless phone, it began to ring.
“Harvath,” he answered.
“Scot, thank God you’re finally home. I have been trying to get ahold of you for over an hour,” said an agitated female voice.
“Natalie, is that you?” asked Scot. Natalie Sperando was assistant to the social secretary of the White House and coordinated most of President Rutledge’s social appearances. While Secret Service guidelines strictly forbade Service personnel from dating any executive staff, especially when assigned to White House duty, it never said anything about not being friends with them, and Scot and Natalie had become good ones during his time there.
“Yes, it’s me. Scot, I need your help,” she said.
“What kind of help? You sound upset. Are you okay?”
“I can’t go into it over the phone. I need you to meet me.”
“It sounds serious.”
“Very.”
“All right. I just finished working out. Let me grab a shower and—”
“I need to meet you now. Can you take the shower later?” asked Natalie.
“Nat, do you want to give me an idea what this is all about?”
“I can’t. Not over the phone.”
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Kind of. It involves a friend of my brother’s. Please, Scot. Can you just come meet me?”
“Sure. I’ll bag the shower. Tell me where you are.”
Natalie gave Scot the name and address, telling him to hurry. He got out of his sweats and pulled on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt. He glanced at his holstered SIG next to the bed and realized it would mean either another layer of clothing or he would have to keep his jacket on all night to conceal it. He decided against it. He wouldn’t need a gun where he was going.
Harvath had the cabbie drop him at the Dupont Circle Metro stop. From there he walked down Massachusetts Avenue toward Scott Circle. He turned onto Seventeenth Street and walked to an upscale pub known as J.R.’s.
J.R.’s catered to a gay clientele that liked to refer to themselves as “guppies,” or gay urban professionals. With its long varnished bar and stained-glass windows, had it not been for the lack of women, J.R.’s would have looked like any other D.C. watering hole. As Scot made his way through the patrons enjoying the Tuesday five-dollar all-you-can-drink special, he finally found Natalie in the back corner with a man he didn’t recognize.
“Oh, Scot. I’m so glad you’re here,” said Natalie as she stood to give him a hug.
“Anything for you, Nat. You know that, but can you tell me what I’m doing sitting in a bar at,” he paused to look at his watch, “at twelve o’clock on a Tuesday night?”
“It’s all my fault, I’m afraid. At least to a certain degree,” said the man who was sitting at the table with Natalie. He looked pale and drawn. Scot noticed when he offered his hand that his wrist was crudely bandaged and some blood showed through.
Scot took the man’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr….”
The man threw a tentative glance toward Natalie, who nodded her head that everything was okay.
“Martin. My name is André Martin. We met about a month ago when I was visiting the White House to see Natalie. It’s okay, though, you must meet a lot of people in your job.”
“You’ll forgive me. I’m normally good with faces. What can I do for you?”
Before he could answer, a waiter who had been hovering close by came over to take their drink orders.
André ordered himself another bourbon, Natalie declined, her wineglass still half full, and Scot ordered a Heineken.
When the waiter left, André lifted his glass and finished the small bit of brownish gold liquid that remained. His hand shook.
“Okay, Nat, you said this was important and had something to do with a friend of your brother’s,” said Scot.
“It is and it does. André is one of Steven’s friends. He—”
André cleared his throat. “Natalie, why don’t I just jump in here and explain? Agent Harvath, are you familiar with the murder of Senator David Snyder’s aide, Mitchell Conti, that happened almost a year ago?”
“Yeah, I think so. A drive-by, wasn’t it? As I remember, the kid was pretty well liked on the Hill.”
“He was,” said André. “The papers billed it as a bad case of ‘wrong place, wrong time,’ but I never bought that.”
“Why not?” asked Scot.
“Because,” continued André, “they were never able to find the shooter or who the intended victim or victims were.”
“Mr. Martin, I hate to say it, but unfortunately the D.C. police are only human and they have their hands full. There are lots of homicides that go unsolved every year. It’s not that unusual.”
“No? Well, what if I tol
d you that Mitchell Conti was also Senator Snyder’s lover?”
Scot couldn’t believe his ears. He looked at Natalie, who nodded her head.
“Mr. Martin, supposing this was true, how would you be in a position to come across this piece of information? And while we’re at it, what does it have to do with the drive-by, and how, in any way, does this have anything even remotely to do with me?”
“Agent Harvath, if you’ll give me a second, I’ll explain.”
Scot sat back in his chair and was quiet as the waiter brought their drinks.
Once he was gone, André began again, “I know these things because Mitchell Conti and I were lovers. We lived together. I left him because of his relationship with Senator Snyder—”
Scot interrupted, “But I know of at least five women over the last two years that the senator is reported to have been seeing. He’s known in the Beltway as quite a ladies’ man.”
“So was Mitch, but appearances can be deceiving. Besides, being bisexual doesn’t make someone any less of a man, nor any less attractive to women.”
Scot was going to have to take André’s word on that one. He sipped his beer and waited for him to continue.
After a shaky sip from his new drink and a look around to make sure they weren’t being overheard, André went on to tell Scot the details of Mitch’s involvement with Snyder and the possible blackmail.
“It’s all a very interesting story, Mr. Martin, and I’m sorry for your loss, but I still don’t see what—”
“What you don’t see, Agent Harvath, is that shortly thereafter Mitch was killed in the supposed drive-by shooting. I was convinced that Mitch’s death was no accident and the police weren’t getting anywhere, so I decided to look into matters myself.”
Wonderful. This guy is a regular Dick Tracy, thought Harvath.
“I did all the research I could on Senator Snyder, and being familiar with many of his predilections via Mitch, I arranged for the two of us to meet. Of course I made it look like it was quite by chance. But little by little, I began to win his confidence and we began seeing each other—”
“Okay, Mr. Martin…I’m going to stop you right there. I have many gay friends. I don’t want you to think for one second that this is a problem I have with someone else’s lifestyle, because it isn’t. But this is just a little too wild for my taste, and as far as you have explained, there’s no way in the world this could have anything at all to do with me.”
“But if you would let me finish.”
“André, I’m going to save you the time, and please excuse me for using your first name—”
“Not at all. It’s okay.”
“Good, listen, I like you. You seem like a nice guy. A smart guy. If you have some concrete evidence that Senator Snyder was involved directly or indirectly with Mr. Conti’s death, I suggest you take it straight to the D.C. district attorney’s office. But I warn you…What do you do for a living?”
“I am an attorney.”
“Well, then I don’t need to warn you of the downside if what you know or what you think you know gets back to Senator Snyder. He is a very powerful man and has a lot of friends. He could make a lot of trouble for you.”
“But, Agent Harvath, what I have to tell you isn’t about Mitch’s death, it’s about the president’s disappearance.”
Natalie spoke up, but he almost didn’t hear her. “See, Scot. This is the reason I called you.”
Scot’s attitude went from boredom and condescension to rapt interest in an instant. “If you have any information whatsoever about the president’s kidnapping, I suggest you spill it right now.”
36
For the hundredth time in the last hour, Scot glanced warily around the room to make sure they were not being overheard. André Martin’s story was absolutely incredible. Harvath now understood why Nat had brought André to him. Where else could the poor guy go? If what he was saying was true, no one would have believed him, and if Snyder wasn’t out looking for him already, he was going to be very soon.
The implications of what André was saying were staggering. Harvath probed for more details, needing to paint the most accurate picture possible.
“So based on all of this, you think the senator was somehow involved in the president’s kidnapping?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know, André. There’s no question after what he did to you that the guy is one sick puppy, but do you really think he was going to kill you for what you overheard? I mean, from what you tell me, you don’t exactly have a smoking gun,” said Harvath.
“Exactly again. I didn’t see or hear anything that would ever stand up in court, but he still wanted me dead.”
“Are you positive he wanted to kill you and not just scare you?”
“Scot,” said André, having dropped the formality of calling him Agent Harvath over half an hour ago, “I’m a lawyer, and lawyers believe that what is not said is just as important as what is. Snyder had no idea what I heard or didn’t hear. All he knew was what I was saying or not saying.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“You were right, in part, that he was trying to scare me. He scared the shit out of me and he left me in that basement to do some very hard thinking. He planned to come back and when he did, he would want answers. He would want to hear what I hadn’t been saying. You follow me now?”
“Yeah, I do, but this is the part of your story that scares me the most,” said Scot. “What you are alleging is pretty serious, and from the look and the sound of it, you can back it up. If nothing else, it would be extremely embarrassing for the senator. You’re right, I don’t think you were ever meant to walk out of that house alive again.”
“So, you’re convinced?”
“Enough to know that Natalie did the right thing in calling me.”
“I knew you would help us,” said Natalie.
“Us? As in both of you? No way, Nat. You need to let me help André alone while you stay as far away as possible. This could be extremely dangerous.”
“Listen, Scot, I didn’t call you up so you could sweep in here and start giving orders. André called me because he didn’t know who else to turn to. Now that you’ve heard his story, you see why he couldn’t go to the police.”
“Yeah, but I’m here now, and we can help him, protect him.”
“Who’s ‘we’? The Secret Service? From what I hear around the White House, you guys have so many leaks Vice President Marshfield is even talking about suspending Secret Service protection and using FBI bodyguards.”
Scot’s blood pressure began to rise. “First of all, Vice President Marshfield doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. The Secret Service is charged with his protection as well as the safety and security of the White House and all those within it. We’re there to stay. You won’t be seeing any FBI protective details; that I can assure you. As far as any leaks are concerned, we’ve yet to nail that down, but there isn’t any reason the Service can’t put André into protective custody until we get to the bottom of this. It’s just going to take a little time.”
“Time? But I thought you said I was in danger?” said André.
“I believe you are, but it’s going to take me a couple of hours to set everything up and bring you in. While I do that, we need to get you someplace safe.”
“He can come back to my apartment,” said Natalie.
“Nat, I told you this could be dangerous, and I don’t want you involved. You did the right thing, and now I want you to walk away.”
“And I told you, Scot, that I am staying right here with André. He’s been extremely kind to my brother over the years, and I’m not going to repay that kindness by ditching him in his hour of need.”
Scot knew when he was licked. “Okay, have it your way, but I don’t want you going home.”
“Why not?”
“Because if Snyder’s out looking for André and he knows the connection between you two, he might go to your apartment. How
much cash do you have?”
“About a hundred bucks, I think. I hit the cash machine after work.”
Harvath reached into his pocket and peeled off two hundred-dollar bills, “Now you’ve got three hundred dollars. I want you to get in a cab and head for Alexandria. Go to the Radisson Old Town on Fairfax and pay cash for a room for one night. Tell them you’re Triple A members, but your purse and wallet were stolen and you have no ID on you, that should knock the rate in half and stop them from asking any questions. Register under the name Cashman. Once you get inside, don’t call anyone. I’ll call you. You got it?”
“I still think going to my place is okay.”
“Nat, you asked me for a favor, and now I’m asking you for one. Go there and stay put.”
“Okay, we’ll do it, but make sure you hurry up.”
“I’ll get to you as soon as I can. Again, I don’t think you are in any immediate danger; we just need to be sure.”
Harvath extended his hand toward André. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t worry.”
“I hope so,” said André, who stood and shook his hand. Natalie was putting on her coat. “You know, Scot, you asked me if there was anything else that seemed odd about the senator’s behavior recently.”
“Yes?”
“There was one other thing I forgot to mention, but it might not mean anything.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it was just another inconsistency in one of Snyder’s stories, but a pretty major one, I thought.”
Scot raised his eyebrows as if to say, Keep going.
“About a month ago the senator took off on an unplanned trip. We had plans and he canceled on me. He brought me back a bottle of dessert wine. He said it was a favorite of Napoleon or Josephine or something, but it didn’t make sense. The whole thing bothered me for a couple of reasons.”
“Why?”
“Well, he said he was called away on a World Bank economic development conference.”