Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

“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.”

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?”