by Brad Thor
Not even five feet down the hallway, they discovered the direction Scot had chosen wasn’t such a hot idea either.
A tall man, with the build of a linebacker, stood blocking their way with a submachine gun. Unlike Miner’s men, he was dressed in street clothes. The minute he spoke, Harvath knew exactly who he was.
“No gun, eh? What a shame.”
It was the hired killer who had been after him since D.C.
“You know what?” the man continued. “You are the biggest pain in the fucking ass I have ever encountered. I’m going to charge double for you and waste your girlfriend for free. Good men, talented men, died trying to nail you, and I guess that makes me the best because I finally got you.” The hit man raised his gun for a better firing angle. “I took two rounds from you in D.C., and my ribs are so fucked up, I can hardly breathe. If I’d had a clean shot, I would have nailed your ass before you led me up this godforsaken mountain. You know, you actually lost me for a bit. You almost got away. While you were climbing up the side, I took the easy way up and eventually saw you going into the church. That’s when I knew I had you. It’s been fun, but now it’s time to meet your maker!”
The assassin’s finger had just begun to apply pressure to the trigger when his head exploded. His lifeless body lurched toward the wall and then fell to the ground.
Standing behind him was his killer. He was quickly joined by a group of similarly dressed figures in black Nomex fatigues with goggles and black balaclavas. My God, how many men does Miner have? Harvath thought desperately.
He had no idea what to do. His mind raced for options. He knew he had to protect the president at all costs, but what could he do against a group of six heavily armed men when he had nothing? He and Claudia had almost made it. Almost.
The man who had killed the assassin reached across his weapon and pulled a piece of black material from his arm. Underneath was a red, white, and blue flag along with the symbol for the army’s elite Special Forces. He then removed his balaclava, revealing the face of Dr. Skip Trawick.
Using his favorite mock Scottish accent, the first words out of his mouth were, “Surprise, surprise.”
“You guys sure took your time,” deadpanned Harvath.
“We were on our way for a pint and heard ya needed a wee bitta help,” said Trawick still in character. “Where’s the president?”
“Right here,” he said as Claudia and Scot parted to let him pass.
Trawick dropped the accent immediately and identified himself.
“Glad to see you. Hell, I’m glad to see all of you. Is the area secure?” asked the president.
“Yes, sir. It is now.”
“Thank God you got here in time.”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I would like to check you out before we evac.”
“Absolutely not. First you check on the young lady, and next it’s Agent Harvath. Then I want your men to—”
“I’m sorry, sir, but these are not my men. I just happened to be first down the hall and got a clean shot. This is a JSOC op. These men are from SEAL Team Two.”
As the men started removing their balaclavas, Scot recognized almost every one of them. Their commander shot Harvath a thumbs-up and several others followed suit.
It was finally over.
80
Geneva, Switzerland—two days later
Scot Harvath awoke slowly. The room took a few moments to come into focus. Looking down at his arm, he saw that he was on an IV. The sunshine streaming in through the window bothered his eyes. A shadowy figure loomed at the edge of his bed.
“How ya feeling, buddy?” a voice said.
Scot recognized the voice, but it took him a few moments to focus in and clearly see the face.
“Dr. John Paulos. Well, I’ll be. This is getting to be like old home week around here,” said Scot, struggling to sit up. John helped him adjust the bed.
“Yeah, the kid told me he found you,” said John.
“Who, young Dr. T? Skip knows better than to share classified information. I’m sure this mission has big red stamps all over it.”
“He only told me he was part of the team that picked you guys up. He wouldn’t say anything he’s not supposed to.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
“First, tell me what you remember.”
Scot closed his eyes and thought back over what had happened and what he’d be able to tell without revealing too much. “You’re doing a diagnostic and checking my memory, right?”
“Yeah, that’s all I’m doing. I’ve been cleared to a certain extent, but why don’t we start from when Skip gathered you all up.”
“Is that how he’s putting it? He gathered us all up?”
“The kid’s a cowboy. You know how those guys from Texas are.”
“Okay, so Skip gathered us up. We took the cogwheel to Alpnachstad, where a couple of jets were waiting to bring us to Geneva. I assume the president is still here?”
“Nope, they brought him in for the complete once-over and then zipped him back to D.C. They want to do the hand surgery back there. You’ve made a lot of people very happy and very proud of you.”
“Thanks, John, but what the hell are you doing here? Last time I saw you, you were back in Park City.”
“There was a lot of concern about what condition the president might be in, if and when they found him. You know about the finger?”
Scot nodded his head. The fact that they’d done that to the president still made him sick.
“Well,” continued his friend John, “there were big-time fears that these guys might go even further and that he might be in pretty bad shape once they found him.”
“So, they had the world’s greatest orthopedic surgeon standing by, right?”
“I don’t know about the greatest. One of the top ten, how about that?”
“Plus, you already had security clearance, so that didn’t hurt. But if they were flying Skip over, why not let him do it?”
“Like I said, the kid’s a cowboy. He’s good, but don’t forget who discovered him. He still has a way to go before he can take the old man.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Scot said, chuckling. “What confuses me, though, is how you all knew the president would be here in Switzerland.”
“That is information that I am not on a need-to-know basis on. You’d have to ask your buddy Lawlor at the FBI; he put this thing together from what I hear.”
“So if the president’s gone, why are you still hanging around?”
“Scot, just because you’re not on the ski team and don’t live in Park City anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you.”
“You’ve gotten friendly with one of the nurses, haven’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“John, some things never change.”
“As far as you’re concerned, you were suffering from exhaustion and got beat up pretty good. They’ll want to run some more tests here and at home, but I think you’ll make it.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Whoops, I forgot. I left something outside. Can you hold that thought for a second?”
“I guess,” said Scot, who watched as John jogged out of the room.
A minute later he heard the door open and John say, “Here we are.” He entered pushing Claudia in a wheelchair. Her faced was bruised, and Scot could see that she had received some stitches to her swollen lip, but she was as beautiful as ever.
Scot didn’t even hear John say, “I’ll leave you two alone,” as he graciously slid out of the room.
She stood and walked to the side of Scot’s bed. Wordlessly, she reached out and took his hand. Scot pulled her to him, and as carefully as he could, so as not to hurt her injured lip, he kissed her. Claudia wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. They both ignored their pain, happy it was all over and
that they were together.
81
Lake Geneva, Wisconsin—04:30, next day
Two pairs of white Mercury Villager minivans pulled into the driveways of the houses bordering Donald Fawcett’s palatial estate. A fifth van waited out on Snake Drive, ready to apprehend any vehicles that might try to escape. At precisely the same moment, a Boston Whaler with quieted outboards was waiting for the go code to beach in front of Fawcett’s home and assault the house from the lawn.
Gary Lawlor watched the seconds tick by on his watch. The team of heavily armed FBI HRT and support agents had practiced the raid over and over again until Lawlor was confident they could do it in their sleep. Only then did he okay the actual assault. Based on what he had gleaned about Donald Fawcett and his involvement with the president’s kidnapping, he didn’t expect him to come willingly.
Lawlor had been provided with the details of a Swiss intelligence officer’s confession, given from his hospital bed in Geneva. Despite the Chinese wall that served to hide who took the confession and how it was obtained, Lawlor knew it had been done by the CIA. Supposedly, Gerhard Miner had willingly provided the confession and named names in exchange for a reduction in the charges. Whether certain methods had been used to extract the confession was anybody’s guess, but they probably had.
Despite Lawlor’s leads and a quickly closing net on Donald Fawcett, the White House wanted a quick end to the situation and had agreed to the deal. Gerhard Miner would probably show up somewhere with a bullet in the back of his head within a month anyway. Just as long as whoever did it wasn’t dumb enough to use one that said, “Made in the U.S.A.”
The information delivered to Lawlor also came with a special FYEO—For Your Eyes Only. The reason Gerhard Miner was in the hospital was because Scot Harvath had beaten the shit out of him, almost killed him with his bare hands. Lawlor couldn’t help but smile.
He looked once again at his watch. Thirty seconds. He told his teams to stand by. “Five…four…three…two…one. Go!”
Fifty-five agents moved in from their assigned positions. All of the utilities were cut, and the security system disabled. Within a minute, agents had breached the front doors and were sweeping the house. There was no sign of Fawcett.
A call came over the radio that agents clearing the study had found two bodies. Lawlor got to their position as soon as he could. What he saw turned his stomach, even after all these years. The bodies of two men, shot execution style, lay in a pool of congealing blood on the hardwood floor. Retrieving their wallets and seeing the names on their IDs made him even sicker. The bodies appeared to be those of Senators Russell Rolander and David Snyder.
After a thorough search of the property, Donald Fawcett was still nowhere to be found.
82
Washington, D.C.—one week later
After five days in the Swiss hospital, Harvath was flown home to the United States, ostensibly to recuperate and undergo further tests. In reality, a whole host of people including the Justice Department, the CIA, the FBI, and the Secret Service wanted him back for debriefing. After a while, the questions grew to be monotonous and repetitive, but it was all part of the job. Director Jameson had an authorized agent transcribe Scot’s debriefing and only asked him to read it over and sign it if it was correct. Mercifully, Scot had no typing to do.
He attended a private ceremony at the White House after the funeral of the vice president. The story in the press was that the cause of death had been injuries suffered in a freak accident at home, while in reality Marshfield had finally cracked under the pressure of what he had done. Knowing he would soon be caught, he’d realized he couldn’t face the music and took his own life.
Harvath was shown into the Oval Office and was soon joined by the president, who was accompanied by the attorney general, Gary Lawlor, and Secret Service director Jameson. Scot stood as they entered.
“Here is the man I’ve been waiting to see,” said the president as he strode across the blue carpeting.
Seeing the president’s right arm in a sling, Harvath immediately offered his left hand. The president grasped it warmly.
“I cannot thank you enough,” the president said. “Once the full story of what you went through was relayed to me, I couldn’t believe it. You risked everything.”
“That’s my job, sir,” said Harvath.
“Well, I don’t know how to repay you.”
“It’s not necessary, sir.”
“Sir, if I may interrupt?” broke in the attorney general.
“Of course.”
“I know your time is limited, and I also know you requested that this meeting with Agent Harvath function as a wrap-up.”
“A wrap-up?” asked Scot.
Director Jameson cleared his throat. “Kind of a final debriefing. We know the overall facts are a bit fuzzy for you, and the president felt you had earned the right to the full story.”
“I see,” said Scot.
“Why don’t we all take a seat?” said the president. The guests divided themselves among the couches and assembled chairs.
“Since Deputy Director Lawlor was responsible for such a large part of the investigation,” said the attorney general, “I think he should be the one to fill you in. Agent Lawlor?”
“Thank you, Attorney General. Agent Harvath…Scot. On behalf of all of us, I would like to apologize for the way in which we treated you,” Lawlor said.
“That’s not necessary,” said Scot.
“No,” continued Lawlor, “it is. Your instincts were right on the money every step of the way. It’s because of you that we have the president back in one piece.”
“Well, maybe not exactly one piece,” the president said, holding up his sling. Everyone in the room laughed politely. Lawlor waited for the laughter to die down before continuing.
“To a certain degree, the real linchpin was the wine invoice you sent me. The Vin De Constance that Miner had cellared at the Hotel des Balances was actually paid for by Donald Fawcett.”
“The industrialist?” Scot was amazed. Yet another twist. “What does he have to do with all of this?”
“The president had put together—and you will excuse me for saying so, sir—a rather shaky coalition to pass a new piece of legislation. It is an alternative-energy bill that would cut our dependence upon fossil fuels dramatically over the next twenty years. Do you know how Fawcett Industries makes most of their money?”
“Lemme guess. It has something to do with fossil fuels?” asked Scot.
“Right, their mining, extraction, refinement, distribution, and sale, to be exact. His commercial empire is based on it. Even passage of part of the president’s bill would have cost him hundreds of millions of dollars. If the act passed in full, it would cost billions.”
The president broke in. “There were strong lobbying efforts for and against this bill. There were lots of jobs and related issues at stake. It’s no secret that I am not seeking another term. This bill was going to be my legacy, and I was bound and determined to get it passed. As Deputy Director Lawlor noted—and no offense taken, by the way—the coalition of votes I had established was shaky at best. Without me there to cajole and handhold, the whole thing would have fallen apart.”
“So—if I may?” asked Scot.
“Certainly,” replied the president.
“Fawcett’s goal was to get you out of the picture long enough to have the bill stall and fall apart?”
“The deputy director is the best one to fill in all the details.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. Apparently, that was the plan,” said Lawlor. “But it went bad. I’ll remind you, Scot, that nothing we talk about can ever leave this room.”
“Yes, sir. I understand completely.”
“Star Gazer turned out to be the vice president.”
“Vice President Marshfield?” Scot was sickened by it, but not completely surprised.
“Yes. Unfortunately, the vice president, being of weak character, was drawn into th
is mess along with Senators Snyder and Rolander.”
“What was in it for them?”
“It was the same across the board for all of them—money. Rolander and Fawcett had been pals since their college days, and I think Rolander had always been envious of Fawcett’s wealth. Rolander got in his pocket early on, and then at some point in this process, when and how we may never know, he brought Snyder in. They wooed Vice President Marshfield with promises of a huge campaign war chest filled with untraceable contributions.”
“And,” said Scot, “with the president not running for reelection next year, this scenario gave Marshfield a chance to get out in front of the cameras and show American voters how he could operate in a tough situation.”
“That’s right. The thing he wasn’t expecting was for the situation to get tougher. From what we’ve been able to uncover, the deal had been that the kidnappers would hold on to the president long enough for the bill to collapse, and then he would be sent home.”
“So the FRC angle was just a front all along, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. The kidnappers knew Marshfield would never authorize the release of the Disneyland bombers, nor would he put pressure on any other countries like Egypt to release any funds or other prisoners the kidnappers might ask for. It was all one big ruse.”
“Just like the president’s cell in Switzerland. When he was returned home and debriefed, everything he would describe would be consistent with having been kidnapped by the Fatah. Right down to the lousy smells, desert heat, and calls to worship.”
“That was the plan, but then the kidnappers got greedy. They already had the president, why not demand more money? Fawcett didn’t care what happened, so he wasn’t going to pay up. He’d already paid them enough and even if they did kill the president, Marshfield would take his place and Fawcett would own the new president lock, stock, and two smoking barrels. When the kidnappers turned their sights on Marshfield for more money, that’s when he began to fall apart.”