Brad Thor - The Lions Of Lucerne

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 waited 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.

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.

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