by Brad Thor
Harvath did as he was told. He explained to Natalie that either he or Shaw would be calling back shortly with details on the pickup. He told her that they would be taken to a nearby safe house and André placed in protective custody, pending a preliminary investigation. She had done the right thing calling him, and she should be proud. They were going to be all right.
Ten minutes later, Shaw appeared with a mug of coffee and his laptop. As Scot began typing his report, Shaw headed for his den. Closing the doors behind him, he crossed the distance to the phone in three fast strides. He picked it up and dialed the number in McLean from memory.
38
“Marsha?” asked Shaw, after a sleepy voice answered the number he had dialed.
“You’ve got the wrong number,” said the voice, and the call was disconnected.
Shaw sat patiently and waited behind the thick, locked doors of his study. On a bank of monitors next to his desk, he watched an image of Agent Harvath diligently typing his report. The small hidden camera had him perfectly in frame. Three minutes later, Shaw’s private line rang and he depressed the button to activate the scrambler hidden within the desk.
“It’s an odd time for a phone call,” said Shaw.
“This is when the rates are the lowest though,” answered the voice.
Each of the parties’ authentication codes completed, the conversation could now begin. They spoke freely, knowing that the lines were secure and the scramblers would prevent anyone from eavesdropping.
“You’d better have something good, Shaw, to call me this late at night. My wife and I were sound asleep.”
“I do, Senator.”
“Well, get on with it.”
“Senator Rolander, it seems that your colleague, Senator Snyder, has been less than discreet.”
“Less than discreet? Speak English, man. What do you mean?”
“I mean, Snyder allowed someone to overhear some of his more sensitive conversations.”
This admission made Rolander very nervous. He gripped the handset of the telephone tighter. “What kind of conversations?”
“The worst kind. The kind that could send us all away for a very long time, if not get us executed for treason.”
“First of all, I don’t care how secure these lines are; I want you to watch your language, and choose your words very carefully. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, now run down what it is you’re talking about and give me all the details.”
Five minutes later, Shaw’s story was complete. He had left out some of the details, but none of the important ones. Senator Rolander had the picture.
“That hedonistic son of a bitch,” swore Rolander.
“To tell you the truth, it doesn’t matter who he was sleeping with, this still could have happened.”
“I agree, but what does matter is that Snyder got sloppy and now we’ll have to clean up his mess. Where is Agent Harvath right now?”
“In my TV room.”
“He’s in your house, and you’re on the phone with me? What kind of idiot are you?!”
“Relax, Senator, he’s on ‘candid camera.’ I’m watching him on a closed-circuit monitor right now. He hasn’t budged in the last ten minutes, and he can’t hear us.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I have him writing up a full report.”
“That report can never see daylight. You understand?”
“Of course. There’s nothing to worry about,” said Shaw as he eyeballed a set of books across the room that hid his wall safe. The report would never get out, unless he needed it to. For now, it would stay in his safe and be a nice insurance policy. Once Harvath finished it and they printed it out, Shaw would read it over, have Harvath sign it, and it would go right into the safe. “As soon as he’s done, I’ll destroy it. We don’t need any loose ends that could cause us trouble, do we, Senator?”
Rolander didn’t like the man’s tone, but he let it go. “No, we don’t. How long do you think it will take him to complete the report?”
“A couple of hours, based on everything I have asked for.”
“Good. The last thing we want is for him to be out running around loose.”
“I agree, that’s why I’ve kept him here. Do you have any idea how lucky we are that he came to me?” asked Shaw.
“Extremely. You’re sure neither he nor this Martin nor Natalie Sperando has spoken with anyone else?”
“I’m pretty certain.”
“Good. I want you to keep him there until I call you back. Under no circumstances is he to leave. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rolander took down the address of the Radisson in Alexandria and hung up.
After dialing several different numbers, Rolander finally tracked down Senator Snyder on his cell phone.
“Russell, I’d love to talk right now, but I am extremely busy,” said Snyder.
Snyder could be busy with only one thing—looking for André Martin.
“Lost something, have you?” asked Rolander.
“Maybe.”
“Listen, David, quit fucking around. I need to talk to you and I don’t want to do it while you’re on a cell phone.”
“It’s digital and there’s no one here but us mices, so go ahead.”
Senator Rolander didn’t know what nobody here “but us mices” meant, but he assumed Snyder was referring to some of the contract men he sometimes hired for illegal operations.
Rolander continued, “You wouldn’t be hoping, as the commercial says, to bring a little André home for the holidays, would you?”
Snyder remained silent. He was stunned.
“Are you still there?” asked Rolander.
“Yeah, I’m here. How did you know?”
“To quote an old friend, ‘how I know is not as important as what I know.’ You fucked up big time. Remember how keen I was on the CYA factor? Well, my ass…who am I kidding?—all of our asses are out in the wind right now and it’s your fault. Digital or not, I want to have this conversation over some eggs, preferably scrambled, so get back to your place and call me.”
“Sorry, Russell. I still have that little lost dog, or should I say bitch, I need to find. I’ll have to call you when I get around to it.”
“Listen, you stupid bastard, I know where he is and will happily tell you, but arrangements need to be made quickly. Get home and call me back.” Rolander hung up the phone, severing the connection.
Turning to his driver, Snyder said, “Take me back to the town house. We may have caught a break.”
39
The hulking, black Chevy Suburban with its darkened windows crept quietly up Washington Street through Alexandria’s Old Town. This late at night, there wasn’t much traffic. Even with the windows rolled up, the scent of the nearby Potomac filled the inside of the vehicle. At Pendleton Street and a sign for Oronoco Bay Park, the driver turned right. Three blocks later was Royal Street and then Fairfax. The vehicle turned left and crept northward. The glowing sign of the Radisson was soon visible. When the Suburban came parallel with the main entrance, it turned in. The driver parked directly in front of the hotel’s main doors and left the engine running.
At this hour only a skeleton crew was on duty. An attractive Filipino woman, whose name tag read “Anna,” looked up from her paperwork and smiled as the man approached the front desk.
“Good evening. May I help you, sir?” asked Anna in her accented English.
“Yes, you can,” said the man, removing a black wallet from inside his suit coat pocket and showing her his credentials. “My name is Agent Scot Harvath, Secret Service. I am here to pick up a Mr. and Mrs….” The man pulled a notepad from his other pocket, flipped a couple of pages, and pretended to come to the name. “…a Mr. and Mrs. Cashman. I believe you have them registered here.”
The desk clerk glanced over the man’s shoulder and saw the blacked-out Suburban parked in front. It looked very official, just like
the ones she had seen so many times on TV. She looked back at the handsome man standing in front of her and thought that he must have the bluest eyes she had ever seen. She tore her eyes away from his and tapped some keys on her computer. “Yes, sir. They are registered guests of the hotel.”
“Can you please tell me what room they are in?” asked the man.
“Is there a problem? Normally we are not supposed to give out that information,” said Anna.
“I understand, and that is a very appropriate policy. This is a matter of national security, though. As I told you, my name is Agent Scot Harvath, and I am with the Secret Service. I have been instructed to pick up the Cashmans. Surely…” the man said, leaning in and pretending to read the clerk’s name tag for the first time, “Anna, you wouldn’t want to interfere with a matter of national security.”
Concerned, she answered, “No, sir. Of course I wouldn’t. The staff has been instructed to always assist the police and other law enforcement should they ever come to the hotel. I will need to note this in my nightly report, though.”
“I understand. That’s no problem. Now, would you please tell me what room they are in?”
“Let’s see…” she said, glancing down. “Room two-fifty-seven. It appears as if they paid for the room in advance. Will they be checking out?”
“Yes,” said the man. “I am going to go up and help them with their bags. Would you please call their room and let them know that Secret Service Agent Scot Harvath is on his way up?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Thank you,” said the man as he crossed the lobby toward the elevators.
Two minutes later, he knocked upon the door numbered 257.
“Who is it?” came a female voice from inside.
“Secret Service, ma’am. I am here to transport you and Mr. Martin.”
The door did not open.
“The desk clerk said that Agent Harvath was here,” said Natalie.
“She must have gotten confused. I asked her to call up to your room and tell you that a Secret Service agent sent by Agent Harvath was here to pick you up.”
After a few moments of silence, the chain slid back and the door opened. Both Natalie and André had their jackets on, ready to go. They followed the man into the elevator and down to the lobby. He had instructed them that time was of the essence and that they must move quickly. As they reached the front desk, he placed their two key cards on it and kept moving.
“Thank you for staying at the Radisson Old Town. We hope to see you again,” said the desk clerk as the trio exited the front door.
The man opened the side door of the Suburban. Natalie was relieved to see an agent sitting on the rear bench seat holding a shotgun. As they all climbed in and the man shut the door behind them, the vehicle, even though it was under the Radisson’s brightly lit canopy, quickly darkened due to the blacked-out windows. Another man, whom Natalie figured to be an additional agent, sat in the front passenger seat. They were taking this very seriously. That was good. She and André could finally relax.
The Suburban swung out of the driveway and headed back south toward the Capital Beltway. They were on their way. For the first time since his ordeal began, André breathed a sigh of relief. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you guys.”
“Oh, I’m sure, but not half as glad as we are to see you,” said the man in the front seat. The reassuring voice put Natalie further at ease until she saw the horrified look on André’s face. He was completely still.
Natalie couldn’t understand why his demeanor had so suddenly changed until the passenger turned around to look at them.
The man in the front seat spoke again, and this time, Natalie knew exactly who it was. “André, I was quite upset to come home and not find you waiting for me.”
40
After typing out his report and making the multitude of clarifications his boss had asked for, Harvath was finally finished. It would have been done sooner, but Shaw kept interrupting him with more questions. Shaw said he was going to be present at the debriefing in the morning with Director Jameson and the treasury secretary and that he wanted to make sure Scot had all of his ducks in a row. After a final read-through of the report and Shaw’s okay, Harvath printed it out and signed it. He was exhausted.
Shaw excused himself and went back to his study to make a few more phone calls. When he reemerged almost twenty minutes later, he informed Harvath that Natalie and André had been collected from the Radisson and moved to the safe house. Everything was taken care of. Shaw said that he had high hopes for Harvath’s debriefing. There were some things that even Shaw couldn’t help him get out of, like assaulting the FBI agent, but given the new circumstances, a lot might be forgiven and Scot might actually walk away with his job intact.
Buoyed by his boss’s confidence, Scot allowed himself a moment of hope. Seeing that he was exhausted and knowing he had a big day in front of him, Shaw called Harvath a cab. While he had fought to stay awake at Shaw’s, Scot allowed himself to nod off on the ride home.
When the cab pulled up in front of Harvath’s Alexandria apartment building, the driver had to call to him several times before he woke up. Once he shook the fog from his head, Scot glanced at the meter and removed some cash from his wallet to pay the driver. He stumbled up the driveway, wondering why he was so groggy, and figured his head still wasn’t exactly back to normal. Passing up his mailbox once again, Harvath decided he needed to get as much sleep as he could before the big meeting in a few hours. He walked up the stairs and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.
Out of habit he glanced up to see if the brown hair was still in place in the upper corner of his doorframe. Immediately, his body tensed. It wasn’t there. He thought back to when he had left and wondered if he could have forgotten to do it. He had rushed out of the house for his meeting with Natalie. Had he or hadn’t he? It had become second nature to him, but then again, he had been doing a lot of things lately that weren’t exactly normal.
Well, either he could stand outside his front door for what was left of the night wondering, or he could go in. Which was it going to be? Harvath decided to go in.
He opened the door slowly and moved cautiously into the apartment, letting his eyes get adjusted to the dark. As his eyes began to focus, he noticed water on his kitchen floor. Then a sharp pain jolted the back of his head and everything went black as his body fell to the linoleum.
When Harvath awoke and slowly opened his eyes, things were blurry and out of focus. There were objects in his line of vision that were unfamiliar. He shut his eyes tightly and opened them again. As his vision cleared, the objects began to take form and make sense. He was lying on the kitchen floor looking at the bottom of his refrigerator.
His head felt as if it had been slammed in a car door. As he drew his right hand across the linoleum to help push himself up, he noticed he was surrounded by puddles of water. His ice trays were scattered not far from where he lay, as were a couple of once-frozen pizzas and a melted container of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. Looking up, he could see the freezer door was wide open.
With both hands and feet, Scot pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned against the cabinets underneath the sink. He reached up and touched the back of his head. There was a bump the size of a walnut, but there didn’t seem to be any blood, dried or otherwise.
Harvath would have killed at that moment for one of his SportGel cold packs for the back of his head, but looking up once again at the freezer, he knew they would all be melted. What was this all about? What was going on? Who had hit him, and what could someone have been looking for in his freezer?
Scot sat on the floor, his back supported by the cabinets, until he felt he could stand. Using the counter for support, he let a wave of dizziness and nausea pass before he attempted to walk into the entry hall. He checked the front door. It was closed, but not locked. He slid along the wall in the hallway, using it to help keep him upright, and almost fell as he drew up to th
e living room.
He couldn’t believe what he saw inside. It was an absolute shambles. The whole room had been tossed. Books, videotapes, couch cushions, everything had been scattered in someone’s manic search, but for what? None of this made any sense. He carefully searched the rest of the apartment until he was confident that whoever was responsible wasn’t hiding in one of his closets somewhere.
Scot knew he should call in immediately, but a wave of nausea began to sweep over him again and he decided to put off any calls until he had a long shower and was able to collect his thoughts.
In the bathroom he turned on the hot water and let it run. Before things got too foggy, Scot grabbed a small mirror from his travel kit and positioned himself with his back to the bathroom mirror. Angling the small mirror, he was able to get a good look at the damage to the back of his head. From what he could see, the skin had not been torn. It was pretty painful to the touch, but it would heal. He got into the shower, put his hands on the tile in front of him for support, and let the hot water pound against his body.
He didn’t know how long he had been in the shower, but it was long enough for the hot water to start running out. Alexandria’s older buildings had their charm, but they also had their drawbacks. Scot climbed out, shaved, and dried his hair. Crossing to his bedroom, he put on a light gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. Hungry and knowing he shouldn’t disturb anything in the kitchen, Scot remembered he had a box of granola bars in a hall closet. As he passed the living room, he noticed the caller ID box was lying on the floor, blinking. It showed one new call.
When he depressed the Call List button on the display, a number came up that Scot immediately recognized as being one at the Secret Service main office. According to the time, it had come in while he was in the shower.
By following the phone cord, he found the base station for his cordless. He hit the intercom button and was able to track down the handset, which was buried beneath one of the wayward couch cushions. Scot dialed his voice mail. It was Director Jameson. “Agent Harvath, this is the director. I have absolutely no idea what is going on or how the media got ahold of this thing so fast, but you have a lot of explaining to do. I am sending a car for you, and you’d better be there.”