Brad Thor - State Of The Union

“According to you,” answered Leydicke, “all but two of the team members are dead. So if Gary’s alive, who would that leave?”

“Frank Leighton,” said Harvath. “Is it his voice?”

Leydicke paused a moment as he tried to remember his old customer. “It could be, but it has been a very long time.”

“When does he usually call?”

“It varies.”

“There must be some pattern to it. He would know that somebody from his team would be here at a set time if he needed to call in.”

Leydicke smoothed down the few loose strands of hair on his bald pate and thought about it a moment. “It was strange to hear a call like that after all these years. At first, I thought it was one of the old guys making a joke, but when I tried to talk to him, he just hung up.”

“Do you always answer the phone here?”

“Of course I do. It’s my bar.”

“Okay. Now I need you to think. Is there any pattern to when the calls come in?”

“No,” said Leydicke. “Except-”

“Exceptwhat?” prompted Harvath.

“There seems to be one last one in the evening. He’ll call right as we’re about to close.”

“And what time do you normally close?”

“In about half an hour.”

“Good,” said Harvath. “That gives us just enough time to get ready.”

Harvath knew it was Frank Leighton on the other end of the line when Leydicke responded to the caller’s inquiry with, “Alice? Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?” and then handed the phone to him. The next several seconds were going to be very tricky and though he had spent the last half hour trying to figure out what to say, Harvath needed to tread very carefully. For all intents and purposes, Leighton was quite literally a walking time bomb. The last thing the United States needed was for that bomb to go off before they were ready.

“Mr. Saritsa,” said Harvath, using Leighton’s alias, “I want you to listen to me very carefully. I have a message from Goaltender. He needs you to hold. I repeat. He needs you to hold.”

“Who is this?” said Frank Leighton after a brief pause.

“For the moment, you can call me Norseman,” replied Harvath using the call sign that he had acquired in the SEALs and which had followed him through the Secret Service. It had been given to him not so much because he looked like a Viking, though he was as ferocious a fighter, but rather because of a string of Scandinavian flight attendants he had dated during his SEAL days. “You need to listen me. The person who should have taken this call has gone missing. Goaltender sent me to find him. Until I do, you need to remain in place.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because there’s been a death in Alice’s family. In fact, most of the family has tragically passed on. Do you understand what I am saying? You’re the only one left who can run the family business. In memory of Alice, we’d like to put some people in place at some of her other offices, but it is going to take a little time to do that.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Not much.”

“If you are who you say you are, you’ll know how to execute the emergency contact plan. You’ve got twenty-four hours, or else I roll,” said Leighton, who then promptly hung up.

Harvath handed the phone back to Leydicke. He knew Leighton wouldn’t call back. As he sat back in his chair and massaged his temples, he wondered how the hell he was going to figure out what the emergency contact plan was between Gary and his operatives.

“So?” asked Herman. “How’d it go?”

“Just great. We’ve got a whole twenty-four hours.”

“And after that?”

“After that, is after that. Let’s focus on what’s in front of us now,” said Harvath, concerned that he may just have pushed Leighton beyond recall.

Herman was about to make a comment when his cell phone rang. “Ja?” he answered after flipping it open. He talked back and forth with someone for several moments. Looking at his watch he said, “in eine halbe Stunde,” then closed the phone and put it back in his pocket.

“What’s up?” asked Harvath.

“That was Sebastian.”

“Did he and Max get the footage?”

“Yes, we’re supposed to meet them in a half hour,” said Herman, standing up from his chair.

After gathering up Gary Lawlor’s suitcase and PDA, Scot and Herman followed Leydicke to the front of the bar where he unlocked the door, shook their hands and watched the two men disappear into a steadily falling snow.

The oddly named Küss (Kiss) Film und Video Produktion company was located in an old derelict warehouse building in a rather seedy and run-down section of the former East Berlin. Herman found a parking spot a few spaces away from the entrance and he and Harvath walked up to a reinforced security door where Herman rang the intercom. A voice over the speaker responded, “Wer ist da?” Herman identified himself and a buzzer sounded as the door’s automatic lock released.

Harvath followed Herman inside past numerous wooden pallets stacked high with large cardboard boxes emblazoned with the company’s not so subtle logo-a glossy pair of red lips pursed in a kiss. He noticed conveyor belts with shrink wrapping machines and off on the other side of the beat-up warehouse, transparent pneumatic doors leading into a pristine clean room with racks of video duplicating equipment. He also had counted no less than seven security cameras since they had walked through the front door.

“Where the hell are we?” asked Harvath as he and Herman approached a large, padded door at the rear of the warehouse. It was covered in deep, red leather and studded with brilliant chrome rivets.

“I’ll let Max explain. This is his friend’s business,” said Herman as they opened the door and stepped into an opulent lobby area that stood in stark contrast to the warehouse behind them. The floors were covered in black marble that was so highly polished it shone like a mirror. Hanging on the wall behind a granite receptionist’s station was the company’s logo done up in bright neon. A low-slung, brushed aluminum table fronted an opulent white leather sectional, and when Harvath caught sight of a series of framed movie posters on the wall, his suspicions of what kind of films and videos the company produced were all but confirmed.

He was about to say something to Herman when Max appeared from the adjacent corridor and called them over.

“Max, what the hell is this place? Peter’s Porn Emporium?” asked Harvath.

“Actually,” said Max, “it’s Marc’s Porn Emporium. Better known as Küss Film und-”

“Video Produktion,” interrupted Harvath. “I know. I saw the sign. The lips are a nice touch. What the hell are we doing here?”

“Looking at your videos. Marc has developed a very interesting niche in the Berlin postproduction market, but I think it will be more interesting if he tells you himself. He’s in the back. “I’ll show you.”

Max turned and walked back down the corridor with Scot and Herman right behind him. They passed a fully equipped state-of-the-art soundstage, booths for audio recording, a master control room, and several high-end editing suites. It was in the very last suite that they found Marc Schroeder, the president and CEO of Küss Film und Video Produktion seated in front of a wide flat panel computer monitor, hard at work. As his guests entered, he spun in his chair and stood to greet them. He was tall, about six feet, clean-cut with perfectly creased khakis and a neatly pressed oxford shirt-not at all the picture Harvath harbored in his mind of a porn producer.

“Marc, I’d like you to meet Scot Harvath and Herman Toffle,” said Max.

Schroeder shook Herman’s hand and upon shaking hands with Harvath joked, “I understand you’re the reason we’re all here. Do you know what I charge for coming in after hours like this?”