Brad Thor - State Of The Union

“Okay. I’ve got your transmitter,” said Harvath.

Lawlor drew a question mark on the pad.

“You and Frank Leighton both had mugs in your houses from the Leydicke pub. I got lucky.”

One tap-yes.

Harvath smiled at Gary’s response. Maybe he was inside there after all. “Do I make contact with Leighton, or will he make contact with me? And what about the encryption code?”

Lawlor was frustrated and slowly tapped his pen over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” said Harvath. “One question at a time.”

One tap-yes.

“Do I call Leighton?”

Two taps-no.

“He calls me then?”

One tap-yes.

“Okay, where?”

Lawlor motioned to Harvath to flip to a clean page and when he did, Gary began trying to write something then gave up and drew a crown with the letterG in the center and beneath it the letters “Mme.”

Great, thought Harvath,more gibberish.

“Is this a place?” asked Harvath, watching the pen for Gary to tap out his response. Several moments passed. Harvath looked up and saw that Gary’s eyes were closed. “C’mon, Gary. I only have a few more questions. Are you with me?”

Harvath heard the pen touch the pad in what he thought was ayes response, but as he looked down and saw it fall from Gary’s hand, a shrill whistle began to pierce the air of the recovery room.

Trawick ran over, took one look at Gary and then checked the monitors above his bed. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “He’s going into ventricular fibrillation. Nurse! Code Blue. Get me the defibrillator.” Turning to Harvath he said, “Outside. Now!”

Harvath reluctantly gathered up the pad Gary had been writing on and backed out of the room. The last thing he saw was a team of nurses gathered around the bed helping Skip prep Gary as the defibrillator was wheeled over and powered up.

Outside the recovery room, Hollenbeck and Longo were still standing guard. Harvath filled them in on what had happened, and they all stood around in silence until Skip emerged ten minutes later with word that Gary had been taken back into surgery. It didn’t look good, and Skip suggested that Harvath make himself comfortable as it was probably going to be a while.

Hollenbeck and Longo followed Trawick up to the operating room while Harvath set off in search of Herman and DeWolfe. He found them watching TV in a small waiting room just off the Intensive Care Unit.

“How is he?” asked Herman, as Harvath walked in.

“Not good,” replied Scot. “He was only awake in recovery for a few minutes and then he crashed. They just took him back into surgery.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said DeWolfe as he got up and turned down the volume on the TV set. “Were you able to talk with him at all?”

“Not really. He was still intubated, and Skip said he might have suffered some cranial trauma during his ordeal. The best I could do was ask questions while he scribbled on this pad,” said Harvath holding it up. “None of it, though, makes much sense.”

Harvath grabbed a chair and placed the pages from the notepad on his lap. “Like I said,” he began, “none of this makes much sense. Gary just wanted to know about the man who killed his wife fifteen years ago.”

“Why do you think he would do that?” replied DeWolfe.

Harvath took another look and said, “I’ve got no idea. I think this was what Skip was trying to warn me about. The damage to his head might have impaired his ability to focus and communicate properly.”

“Did he know you were talking to him?”

“He seemed to. When I asked him some yes-or-no questions, he would tap the pen on the pad in response. Once foryes and twice forno.”

“What’s on the last page there?” asked Herman.

“That one makes even less sense,” said Harvath, picking up the piece of paper and peering at it. “He drew it after I asked him where the emergency contact point was. To tell you the truth, it looks like a gang sign to me.”

“Maybe it’s a place or some sort of location,” replied Herman.

“Or a clue to where he hid his cookies as a little boy,” answered Harvath. “I can’t vouch for the authenticity of any of this.”

“Back up a second. What’s the drawing look like?” asked DeWolfe.

“It’s a crown with aG in it with some letters underneath,” answered Harvath.

“A crown with aG in it?” said Herman. “Let me see that.”

Harvath handed the page to Toffle who removed a pair of glasses from his coat pocket and took a closer look.

“When did you start wearing glasses, Herman?” asked Scot.

“None of your business, and you never saw this,” responded Toffle.

“Hey,” said Harvath, “wearing glasses is your business. And if that’s the way you want it, then I never saw anything.”

“Not my glasses, youBlöde Fotze. This symbol. You’ve never seen it before?”

Harvath, who felt sureBlöde Fotze wasn’t a term of endearment, leaned in closer to Herman to take another look at Lawlor’s drawing. “Absolutely not,” he said, after a closer inspection. “I’ve never seen it before. Have you?”

“Maybe. Let me ask you something about your friend Gary Lawlor.”

“Herman, if you know what that symbol is,” said Harvath, his voice a mix of eagerness and frustration, “let’s have it. Don’t beat around the bush with me.”

“How can I put this delicately?” replied Toffle.

“Herman. Fuckdelicately. We don’t have time for it. What the hell is it?”

Herman paused either for effect, or to figure out the best way to give voice to his discovery. Harvath suspected it was the latter and his suspicion was confirmed when Toffle said, “It’s the logo for a bordello called the King George. It’s located in the Steglitz district.”

“You’re sure?” asked Harvath.

“Positive.”

Harvath was well aware of his friend’s proclivity for loose women; a character trait Herman Toffle claimed he had wholeheartedly sworn off when he had gotten married.

Toffle looked at his friend and then said, “The King George is actually not a bad choice for a contact point. It is open at all hours and it wouldn’t look odd for anyone to be seen entering or leaving there. What confuses me are these three letters ‘M M E’ underneath the logo.”

“They must stand for something.”

Harvath looked at his Kobold Phantom chronograph. “Well, we’ve got less than two hours, so I suggest we put our thinking caps on.”

“Let me take a look at that,” said DeWolfe, as he walked across the room, took the paper from Toffle and studied it. “Harvath, I can’t believe you missed this.”

“Missed what?”

“I thought you spoke French,” replied the communications expert, handing the drawing to him.

“A little, yes.” Harvath looked harder and then it hit him. Smiling, he said, “Now we know who to ask for when we get to the King George.”

“How’d you figure that out?” demanded Toffle as he grabbed the page back and looked at it.

“M-m-e, Herman,” replied Harvath.

“Yeah, so?”

“It’s the French abbreviation forMadame.”

First a porn production facility and now a brothel.Harvath had always thought that Amsterdam was Europe’s most colorful capitol, but he was beginning to change his mind.

The King George looked like any other five-story gray stone building in Berlin. With its handsome balconies and decorative fleur-de-lis ironwork covering the mullioned windows of the first three levels, it could have been the headquarters of a successful multinational, or a multifamily dwelling.

After parking their car, the trio walked up a short flight of stone steps that gave onto a large door painted a subdued green and accented with brass fixtures. Herman rang the bell and when a voice came back over the intercom, he announced himself as “Herr Toffle.”