The Lions of Lucerne

by Brad Thor

  The media? I’ve got some explaining to do? What was the director talking about? Scot waded through the sea of upturned items in his living room and turned on his TV. It was tuned to a local channel, and the image of a female reporter standing in a wooded area with police, state trooper, and rescue vehicles in the background appeared on the screen.

  The reporter was speaking, and Scot turned up the sound to hear what she was saying. “…by two joggers early this morning. Apparently the victims had both been shot in the back of the head with a large-caliber weapon. While police say they have no leads on the killer, the FBI’s mobile crime lab appeared on the scene moments ago, and we will keep you informed of any developments. Back to you in the studio.”

  What is going on? Scot furiously switched channels until he found another live shot from the same scene. The reporter was saying, “Yes, Jean, it is indeed a tragic day for the White House, as if their problems weren’t already bad enough. To compound the feelings of loss President Rutledge’s staff must already be experiencing, they now must add to it the murder of the assistant to the White House social secretary, Natalie Sperando, whose body, along with that of a currently unidentified man, was found early this morning by joggers in rural Maryland. Both victims were shot once in the back of the head with what police are saying was a large-caliber weapon, most likely a handgun.

  “While authorities are not speculating as to the motive for the murders, no possibilities are being ruled out at this time. Moments ago the FBI mobile crime lab arrived on the scene—”

  Scot turned off the TV. The nausea was returning, and he fought it down. Two more people who had trusted him were dead, but how? And why Natalie, of all people? Scot was overwhelmed with grief. She had been such a good friend. What happened? Shaw had told him that they had made it to the safe house. Could they have been followed? Both of them shot with a large-caliber weapon— Before he could finish the thought, Harvath ran toward his bedroom.

  This room had been tossed as well, but now Scot didn’t care about preserving the scene. He needed to find his sidearm. Frantically, he tore apart the already annihilated room. Why had he left his pistol behind last night? Why hadn’t he taken it with him?

  As Scot continued to search, he caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye. He thought it was his head playing tricks on him and tried to ignore it. He went back to searching for the gun. He was on his hands and knees now, throwing pieces of clothing over his shoulder in a mad attempt to recover the SIG. The light came back. Harvath stopped searching. He looked up at the repeating colors of red, blue, red, blue, along the wall and realized they were coming from outside.

  Keeping low, he scrambled toward the window and peered out through the partially open blinds. Pulling up to the curb below were several government favorites: dark-colored Ford Crown Victorias with suited drivers, which belonged to either the FBI, the Secret Service, or both. There were also several police cars.

  My God, thought Harvath, they must think somehow that I am responsible for André’s and Natalie’s murders and are here to arrest me. All things considered, Harvath was also willing to bet that the gun used to commit the crime would turn out to be his missing SIG-Sauer.

  While Scot was a stand-up guy, all for telling the truth and cooperating, something told him that now wasn’t the time to go gentle into that good night. He needed some answers first.

  Trying to push the shock of Natalie’s and André’s murders from his mind, Scot grabbed his jeans from where he’d left them on the bathroom floor and transferred everything into the pockets of the trousers he was now wearing. He threw on his trench coat, stepped out, and locked the door to the apartment behind him. Turning to his left, he opened the door to the fire stairs and started down, careful not to make any noise.

  41

  As Scot moved down the last flight of stairs and pushed open the door to the basement, he realized that a little-known feature of his building was about to pay off big time. He was glad he had done his homework.

  The old apartment building Harvath lived in, as well as all of the other buildings along his block, had been owned and built by the same wealthy Virginia family. The wife had been quite the eccentric and hadn’t wanted to deal with coal-truck deliveries disrupting her rather erratic sleeping patterns, so the husband had connected all of the basements by a series of passageways. The coal was delivered via the main building’s chute at the north end of the block, and servants then transported it through the passageways to the boiler rooms of the other buildings.

  While this system was no longer in use, the doors connecting one basement to another were still there, and Scot had long since made copies of the keys that fit the locks, just in case. It all went back to his SEAL training: a SEAL always has at least two routes of escape, because a SEAL is always prepared. Pulling his key ring from his pocket, he quickly opened the first door and then locked it behind him. Even though he thought that the basement lights were probably still functional, Harvath chose not to risk using them and drew the small Mag-Lite from his trench-coat pocket and used it to light his path.

  He quickly made his way to the northernmost building, exited through the alley, and two blocks later hailed a cab. He had the driver drop him on Russell Road, just before King Street. From there, Harvath made his way to the King Street Metro stop, just next to Alexandria’s Union Station.

  There were still plenty of morning commuters about, and Harvath blended in with them perfectly, just another businessman on his way to work in D.C. The question was, where was he going? At the King Street Metro stop you could take either the blue line or the yellow line. Which one?

  He decided against using his Metro Fast Pass. While he doubted it could be used to trace his movements within the Metro, he didn’t trust it. Walking over to one of the automatic machines, he inserted five dollars and seconds later pulled out a One Day Pass.

  After retrieving his pass and moving through the turnstile, Harvath headed for the blue line bound for Addison Road. Having ridden the underground systems in both Chicago and New York, Washington’s clean, carpeted Metro system always amazed him. People never even ate on the trains, lest they get chewed out by a Metro worker or, worse still, a fellow passenger. The people who used the Metro took it very seriously, and within one visit, even tourists figured out that while you’re standing on the escalator, you always stand to your right or you risk being trampled by frenzied businesspeople rushing to get their trains.

  As the Metro passed through the austere beige stations, whose ceilings were lined with what looked like cough drops but were actually engineering enhancements used to reduce echoes, Harvath kept his eyes peeled for any D.C. police or the brown-capped Metro cops that might already be looking for him. So far, so good.

  Harvath got off the train and exited the system at the Foggy Bottom—GWU station. The Foggy Bottom area was the neighborhood just to the west of the White House that was home to George Washington University. It was also known as the West End.

  He quickly made his way down Twenty-third toward the university and G Street. Halfway to Twentieth Street was the Washington Bytes cyber café and bakery. The smell of fresh roasted coffee filled his nostrils as he walked in. They had the best bagels in town, and Scot ordered one with cream cheese and chives, along with an OJ, before sitting down at one of the terminals in the back corner.

  The café was an easy walk from the White House and an occasional haunt of Harvath’s when he needed to get away from the high-energy pace at work. Today, there were only a few students around, and where Scot sat no one could see him from the street.

  All of the computers came equipped with a headset and web phone software. Scot reached up and disconnected the camera on top of his monitor. He allowed himself a bittersweet moment to think about Natalie once again before he took a bite of his bagel followed by a long swig of OJ and then hopped onto the web. He entered the telephone number for his home computer’s dedicated modem line and swallowed two Tylenols while he waite
d for the connection to complete.

  After two rings and some electronic cross talk between the café’s computer and the one at home, Harvath was ready. He set about establishing a routing system that would bounce his call through several international servers. If the person he was about to call was tracing all of their incomings, it would take them quite a while to figure out where the call came from, and even when they unraveled the long electronic chain, all they would be left with was the appearance that the call originated from Harvath’s apartment.

  Ten minutes later, the trail was set and Scot was ready to make his call. He dialed the number for Bill Shaw. His secretary answered on the first ring. Harvath identified himself, and after a couple of clicks and another ring, he was put through.

  “Scot, where are you?” asked Shaw.

  “I don’t want to talk about where I am, Bill,” said Scot quietly, cautiously glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “What the hell happened?”

  “Scot, I am sure there is an explanation for all of this. I promise we’ll listen to you. We just need to bring you in.”

  “Me? Bring me in? What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Scot, I’m here with the director—”

  “You are? Why is the director in your office?” asked Scot.

  “He’s not. I’m in his. Your call was forwarded here. We had an appointment this morning. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember, but that’s not why I’m calling. I want to know what happened to Natalie and André Martin. You said they were safe.”

  “Safe? What are you talking about?”

  “Last night,” said Scot, “at your house, you said you would have them picked up and put into a safe house.”

  “Scot, I’ll admit we did talk about many things when you showed up at my home in the middle of the night, but a safe house wasn’t one of them.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Scot, I have explained to the director how you appeared at my house ranting in the middle of the night. I attempted to calm you down. We talked about the president’s kidnapping, your feelings of guilt, your concern that you might be fingered as the inside leak…. I gave you my word I would do everything to help you—”

  “You lying son of a bitch!” said Scot, careful to keep his voice down, but making sure the force of the emotion came through nonetheless.

  “Scot, this is Director Jameson. I am ordering you to tell us where you are so we can bring you in for debriefing.”

  “Debriefing for what?” asked Scot.

  “Twenty minutes ago a SIG-Sauer three-fifty-seven semiautomatic was found near the Sperando murder scene with a serial number that comes up positive as the sidearm issued to you. It is also covered with your fingerprints. If you are not responsible, we’ll give you ample opportunity to prove your innocence.”

  “Prove my innocence? What about innocent until proven guilty? Sounds to me like you guys have already made up your minds on this one.”

  “Scot, we want to help you,” said Shaw.

  “You know what, Bill? I think you’ve helped me enough already. By the way, you don’t know anything about a little redecorating job that was done at my apartment last night, do you?”

  “All I know is that when you didn’t answer your door this morning when our men came to pick you up, they were let in by your building manager and said the place was a complete and total mess.”

  “But you had nothing to do with it, nor the fact that I got whacked in the back of the head and my gun was missing when I woke up, right?”

  “What would I have to do with it? You’re talking crazy again, Scot.”

  “I’m crazy? That would be a convenient excuse, wouldn’t it? I don’t suppose you gave the director the statement you had me write up at your place last night either, did you?”

  “Statement?” asked Shaw. “I didn’t have you write up any statement. Scot, this is serious. I think your head injuries may have been graver than any of us originally thought. If you’ve injured your head again, we need to get you to a doctor.”

  “I also suppose,” said Scot, ignoring Shaw’s expression of concern, “that the director knows nothing of Senator Snyder’s potential involvement in the kidnapping of the president.”

  “He knows, all right. I told him about all of the people you thought were involved, right down to the White House gardener. Scot, last night you were throwing conspiracy theories around like they were going out of style. I think this has been too much for you. We need to get you some help.”

  Scot was silent. Why was Shaw trying to railroad him? He was blatantly lying, but why? There could only be one answer. He was somehow involved.

  “Scot, this is Director Jameson again. Listen, son. I want you to turn yourself in. Tell us where you are and we’ll come get you. I promise we’ll listen to everything you have to say. Just tell us where you are.”

  “That’s a nice offer, Director, but I think I’m going to decline right now. As for Agent Shaw, I made Sam Harper a promise that I would get the people responsible for his death. You’re now on that list, Bill. Have a nice day.”

  Harvath terminated the connection.

  42

  If a full dragnet was not already out, it would be very soon. Refusing a direct order from his superiors to come in and answer questions about a murder investigation involving his weapon should put him at the top of every law enforcement hot sheet in the D.C. area. Which meant he didn’t have much time.

  As he was preparing to log off from his home computer, Harvath noticed the little flag that showed he had one message. Knowing he didn’t have time for this, he still let his curiosity get the better of him, and he clicked on the new mail icon.

  Dear Sir:

  Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding Nestlé S.A. chocolate products. We are sorry to inform you that our Lieber chocolate bar is not currently available in the United States. This candy is made exclusively for the Swiss market. We would like to point out that Nestlé has a fine line of chocolates which can be purchased in the United States and other countries abroad. For a full listing of our chocolates, or for any other Nestlé products, please visit our web site at…

  Scot logged off of his home computer and signed off from the cyber café’s. He paid the earthy-crunchy chick at the coffee counter for his time on line and headed out the door.

  On the pavement, he quickly scanned both directions for signs of anything that seemed out of place. Not noticing anything out of the ordinary, Scot walked down G Street to Twentieth, made a left, and headed north toward Dupont Circle. It had been less than ten hours since he had gotten out of a cab in almost the same neighborhood to meet with Natalie Sperando and André Martin. Now they were both dead and someone was trying to hang him for their murders. There could be only one reason: André had been one hundred percent on the money.

  It began to rain again, and Scot popped into a small drugstore and bought an umbrella and an ugly tweed Totes hat. Using the weather to his advantage, he turned his collar up and pulled the hat down to conceal as much of his face as possible. After giving Natalie two hundred dollars last night, paying for his time and breakfast at the cyber café, the Metro pass, and now the hat and umbrella, Harvath was left with seven dollars.

  He found an ATM across the street. He slid in his card and punched his code. He selected the withdraw-two-hundred-dollars option and waited. Instead of the thack, thack, thack sound of bills being metered out, he heard the printer printing a receipt; not a good sign. The screen flashed a benign message: Unable to complete transaction at this time. Please try again later.

  Could they have frozen my account? Scot wondered. There’s no way they could have moved this fast. It had to be a coincidence. He put his ATM card back in his wallet and continued to head north toward Dupont Circle. When he reached M, he hailed a cab. He had the driver hang a left on Massachusetts Avenue and go through Embassy Row past the vice presidential mansion at the U.
S. Naval Observatory. Convinced he wasn’t being followed, he then instructed the driver to change direction and come back along Florida Avenue to North Capitol Street and drop him at Union Station.

  The fare was more than Harvath had in cash, but he had flagged a cab from a company he knew took plastic. He leaned forward through the partition to watch if his card would be accepted. It was. He had been overreacting about the cash machine. His accounts hadn’t been frozen. Not yet, at least.

  Even though rush hour was over, Union Station was still crowded. Harvath kept his collar up and his hat pulled down close to his eyes. He tucked the umbrella under his arm and walked with his shoulders hunched up as if he was fighting off a chill from the cold air. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his trench coat. His right hand played with a key André Martin had slipped him as they shook hands good-bye last night at J.R.’s. “A copy of my insurance policy,” André had said. “I’ve always liked trains. How about you, Scot?” Those had been the last words André Martin would ever say to him.

  As Harvath picked his way through the station toward the lockers, his eyes scanned the room for any surveillance. Normally, he would have hung back for a while to see if anyone was watching the locker, but there was no time for that. The longer he hung around, the better the chances were that the dragnet would swallow him.

  Harvath eyeballed a couple potential exits he could sprint to if he was made and, with the small comfort that afforded, moved toward the bank of colored metal lockers. He looked at the key with its number sixty-eight and wondered if Martin had chosen it out of fondness for the old joke: “What’s a sixty-eight? It’s kind of like a sixty-nine except you do me and I’ll owe you one.” If there was anything within this locker that he could use, Harvath definitely would owe André one.