State of the Union (11 page)

The lead MEK agent, a very muscular man of medium height named Sebastian, waved over one of his operatives and instructed him to feed their snake—a long fiber optic camera, underneath the door and into the apartment to give them an idea of what might be waiting for them on the other side. The operative slid the snake slowly into the apartment and spent several moments looking into the monocle viewfinder before raising his head and giving Sebastian the
all clear
.

Sebastian tested the doorknob to see if it was locked and then motioned to Herman, who radioed the men on the roof to get ready. The plan was that they would rappel down and smash through two windows in the rear of the apartment at precisely the same moment as the rest of the team came through the front door. After a final check with their man, Max in the café, Herman began counting backwards from five in German, “
Fünf, vier, drei, zwei, eins, null!
”

At the zero mark, the team sprang. One of Sebastian’s men had a mini–battering ram and with one blow, shattered the lock and flung the door wide open. With their weapons drawn, the men charged into the apartment, right as their teammates from the roof came crashing through the rear windows. Everything had been orchestrated with absolute perfection. The team fanned out, clearing the rooms in a matter of seconds, but there was no sign of Gary Lawlor.

Harvath began moving from room to room, looking for any clue that Gary had been there or might have left some indication as to where he was going or where he might be, but there was nothing.

Several of the men sat down in the small living room and began disassembling their weapons. As Harvath entered, he noticed Sebastian, the team leader, standing next to a bookcase near the front windows. As Sebastian removed one of the books from the shelf, Harvath noticed a red dot trace along the wall.

“Get down!” he roared, as he leapt across the room.

The pinpoint targeting device came to rest square in the center of Sebastian’s chest and the chance that it had come from the laser site of one of his team members was all but impossible. They were professionals through and through, and would not have played games like that.

As he knocked into Sebastian, Harvath’s highly attuned senses heard the crack of glass, followed by the sensation of being pounded in the chest three times in quick succession by a sledgehammer.

Before he and Sebastian had completely rolled to the safety and cover of a nearby sofa, the room was awash in a sea of splintering wood and crumbling plaster.

“Where is the shooter?” Harvath heard one of the MEK operatives yell in German as he quickly reassembled his weapon.

“Across the street,” responded another who had powered up his night vision goggles and was sneaking a peek out the window. “On top of the roof.”

As the rest of the men crawled over beneath the windowsill and readied to take up firing positions, Harvath’s pain receptors kicked in and he began clawing at his bulletproof vest. His left side was completely on fire. It felt as if a pair of branding irons were searing into his skin.

He reached underneath his coat and unfastened the Velcro straps, which secured the vest in place. He pulled the chest portion away from his body, but the burning continued. His fingers shot frantically inside, trying to assess his injuries, but touching his left side only made things worse.

Sebastian’s men were already at the window, showering the roof of the building across the street with hot sheets of silenced lead as Harvath struggled to get out of his leather jacket. He was able to slide his right arm out with little difficulty, but when he moved to free his left arm, his ribs erupted in even more pain. It was the same area that had been repeatedly kicked by his interrogator before the president had called off Defense Secretary Hilliman’s DOD attack dogs.

With the jacket hanging off his left shoulder, Harvath gave up on trying to take it the rest of the way off and reached as far as he could around his left side to see if he was bleeding. He drew his hand back and looked at it.
No blood
.

A hail of brass shell casings fell all around him and the air was thick with the smell of cordite as the MEK operatives continued firing at the roof across the street. Harvath wrestled with the vest until he was finally able to slide out from underneath it and then laid there panting, only able to gulp in short, painful gasps of air. Turning the body armor inside out, he noticed that two of the three rounds had actually penetrated the Spectra, but had been stopped short of entering his body. He offered up a silent thanks to Herman Toffle for insisting he wear it.

Taking the sniper fire full force to his side had knocked the wind out of him, and so Harvath focused on his breathing until he slowly got it back under control. He then did a more thorough triaging of his injuries and decided that he had probably received a severe bruising, or worse, several cracked ribs. From his combat medical training, Harvath knew the biggest risk from broken ribs was puncturing a lung. He drew in another painful breath of air and was confident that though it hurt like hell to breathe, neither of his lungs had been punctured. As far as a course of action for his ribs was concerned, there was nothing that could be done. While some people might tape or wrap damaged ribs, all it served to do was remind you of your injury. Harvath didn’t need any extra reminders, he was sure the pain would be reminder enough.

Several of the MEK operatives had already left the apartment in pursuit of the shooter across the street when Sebastian made his way over to Harvath and helped him to his feet. Sebastian was a man of few words. He offered a simple
thank you
and Harvath shook his hand in return. Herman Toffle, on the other hand, was anything but a man of few words.

“What the hell is going on? It looks like your friend is in more than just a little bit of trouble,” said Herman as he limped over to Harvath on his bad leg. “I know you agreed to pay for the beer tonight, but that’s not going to be enough for Sebastian and his people now. Look at this place.”

Harvath ignored Herman as he worked one of the bullets out of his Spectra vest.

“Are you listening to me?” continued Herman. “Why would a sniper have been staking out this apartment?”

“Whoever it was, that was no ordinary sniper,” replied Harvath holding up the bullet he had retrieved from his body armor. “Nine millimeter. Full metal jacket.”

“
Nine millimeter?
” said Herman as he accepted the round from Harvath and held it up to get a better look at it. “Why not use a high-velocity rifle round like a 308 or 223?”

“Because the shooter wasn’t using a rifle.”

“Why not? Why take the time to stake out the apartment, but not bring the right equipment?” asked Herman as he handed the round back to Harvath.

“Who said he didn’t bring the right equipment? Nine millimeter is a very fast round. With a ported silencer and a bipod, even a small weapon can be very effective at this range. This is a narrow street. The shot wouldn’t have been that hard. And the best thing about a small weapon is that it’s extremely easy to conceal.”

“Even with body armor on, that was a very brave thing you did,” said Herman.

“I reacted, that’s all.”

“Well, call it what you will, but I’m sure Sebastian appreciates it.”

“He would have done the same thing for me.”

“I’d like to think so. He’s a good man. That’s why I asked for his help. Now, tell me, did you have any idea the apartment was being watched?” asked Herman, his eyes searching Harvath’s for any indication that he might not being telling the truth.

“Of course not. I told you everything I knew,” Scot replied.

“About the apartment, but not about your friend. All you said was that he had gone missing and you had reason to believe he might be being held against his will in here.”

“That’s true.”

“What about the rest of it? Who is this friend of yours and what was he up to?”

Harvath had hoped things wouldn’t come to this. Herman had agreed to help him, no questions asked, but being ambushed by the sniper had now altered the arrangement and Harvath knew it.

“All I can tell you is that he is one of the good guys and we need to find him very soon,” said Scot.

“Or else what?” asked Herman, not happy that his friend was keeping him in the dark.

“Suffice it to say that there is a very serious time element at work here and an incredible amount of lives hang in the balance.”

“Yet you’re not working with the German government.”

“I told you, the assignment is too sensitive. I brought you in because I knew I could trust you.”

“But not with the full picture,” responded Herman, as he massaged his forehead with the broad palm of his hand.

Harvath remained quiet.

“I understand that in this business secrets must be kept, sometimes even between good friends, but Sebastian and his people don’t know you; not like I do,” said Herman. “They are doing this as a favor to me and they are going to want answers—answers that I’m not equipped to give them. What am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know,” answered Harvath, just as frustrated as Herman. “There’s got to be something here. Something that someone didn’t want us to find.”

“That, or they knew people were going to come looking for your friend and they wanted to stop them.”

“Either way, we’ve got to search the apartment again.”

“Well, we’d better search fast. According to Sebastian, the Polizei are already on their way.”

A
fter another quick search of the apartment proved fruitless, Harvath, Toffle, and the rest of the MEK operatives had quietly stolen out of the building and fanned out in separate directions just as the first police cars began arriving on the scene to secure both ends of the Goltzstrasse.

Two hours later, they had met back up at their prearranged rallying point—a half-empty Bierstube on the eastern side of the city.

Sitting with the men at a quiet table in back, Harvath stared blankly at the old German movie posters covering the walls, stained a deep yellow from years of nicotine accumulation. He couldn’t help but feel that he had let Lawlor down by not finding anything of use in the apartment.

The men made small talk as they unwound and kept the waitress busy going back and forth for beers and shots of Jägermeister. The cold, caramel-colored liquor warmed Harvath’s stomach and, mixed with the strong German beer was beginning to deaden the throbbing pain coursing up and down his left side. It felt like he had been hit by a tank.

His mind drifted to what Meg had said back in his apartment in Alexandria. The idea that Harvath might have devoted most of his adult life chasing the elusive respect of his father was something he didn’t feel comfortable wrestling with. That in turn made him wonder about Meg. Things had moved quickly between them, and he began to wonder if maybe they had moved along too quickly. A feeling of hopelessness was beginning to well up inside him. Suddenly, he caught himself.
What the hell was he doing?
This wasn’t like him. He needed to get his head back in the game.
Concentrate on the assignment
, he told himself. People always leave clues—it’s just a matter of looking hard enough until you find them. He needed to uncover a lead, something that would help them find Gary.

Sebastian was talking on his cell phone as Herman raised his empty glass to get the waitress’s attention and said, “What do you want to do next?”

“What can we do?” replied Harvath. “The way I see it, the only option we have now is to canvass the neighborhood and see if anyone remembers seeing Gary.”

“That’s a lot of work,” said Herman, “and it could draw a lot of attention.”

“It might not be necessary,” said Sebastian, folding up his phone and placing it back in his pocket.

“Why not?” said Harvath.

“You’ll see. Follow me.”

As Harvath stood in the parking lot behind the Bierstube, he tried to find some way of keeping warm other than stomping his feet, which sent shudders of pain through his left side. Sebastian explained that he had been on his cell phone with his operative from the café across from the Capstone apartment building. Apparently, the man had something he wanted them to see. When Harvath asked what it was, Sebastian smiled and held up his index finger in a gesture that said, “Be patient.”

Moments later, a pair of bright halogen headlights came slicing into the lot and headed right toward them. They belonged to a brown BMW, which skidded to a stop directly in front of where they were standing. The driver climbed out of the car, walked over and shook hands with Sebastian and Herman. They spoke in rapid-fire German that was too fast for Harvath to understand. Finally, the driver motioned for Harvath to follow him.

“Sorry to have missed all the fun,” said the man, with only a trace of a German accent, as they walked around to the trunk of his car. “My name is Max.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Harvath, as they shook hands.

When they reached the trunk, Max pressed a button on his keyless entry device and the trunk popped open.

Harvath leaned forward to peer inside only to have Max say, “Be careful, he bites. Although we are working on that, aren’t we, Heinrich?”

The man lying on the floor of the trunk was dressed like a waiter, and as he began to sit up he let loose with a string of colorful German expletives, most of which, from what Harvath could gather, were directed at Max’s mother.

Max responded by slamming the lid of the trunk down on Heinrich’s head.

“What’s this all about?” asked Scot, as Max raised the lid again, revealing a somewhat stunned Heinrich who looked like he was ready to shoot his mouth off again, yet might be thinking better of it.

Max leaned in and grabbed Heinrich’s face between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing the man’s lips into a tight pucker that made him look like a fish. “Heinrich has a little present for you.”

“Let me guess. Did he see something?”

“Oh, he certainly did. You see, Heinrich is a waiter at a certain café on Goltzstrasse, and it turns out we used to know each other from the days when I investigated narcotics. He told me he was clean, but based on what I found in his pockets, I think he may be telling an untruth.”

Harvath looked hard at Heinrich and then shifted his gaze to Max. “And?”

“And, well, Heinrich came on duty right when I was preparing to leave. Everyone in the café was watching the policemen outside and talking about what had happened. When Heinrich saw me, he tried to sneak back into the kitchen, but seeing as how we are old friends, how could I pass up such a wonderful opportunity to get reacquainted? For some reason, Heinrich was acting very nervous, so I helped him into the men’s room where I went through his pockets and found that he was not as clean as he claimed to be. Isn’t that right, Heinrich?” said Max as he used his free hand to pat the man firmly on the head where even Harvath could see a very nasty lump was already rising.

“In the course of our conversation,” continued Max, “he asked me why the police had been spending so much time hassling people on the Goltzstrasse. When I asked him to be more specific he told me that yesterday he saw two policemen staking out the apartment building up the street and that they had eventually busted some businessman by zapping him with a Taser. They then cuffed him, threw him into the back of their car, and sped away.”

Harvath couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What did the man look like?”

Heinrich, happy to spit out what he knew and hopefully get away from Max said, “He looked like a businessman in a suit with a long overcoat. Okay?”

“More,” said Harvath. “Height, age, weight, hair color…”

“Gray hair. He was an older man. Maybe he was in his late fifties or early sixties. I am not sure. He was medium height and not thin, but not fat either. That’s all I know.”

Harvath pumped him with further questions and listened as Heinrich the junkie waiter repeated the same story he had told Max.

“Is it common for German police to subdue suspects with stun guns?” asked Harvath.

“I don’t know,” said Heinrich scared of what might happen if he didn’t answer every question the American was asking.

“He wasn’t talking to you,
Dummkopf
,” said Max, slapping him in the head. “He was talking to me.” Turning toward Harvath he said, “No. Using a stun gun to subdue a suspect is very unusual. That’s why I thought you might want to hear Heinrich’s story for yourself and have a chance to ask him questions. Do you have anything else?”

Harvath asked Heinrich to describe the “policemen” and their car. The waiter gave the best description he could, stating that he did not really get a good look at anything. The car might have been a Volkswagen, or it could have been a Mercedes. He couldn’t tell. As far as the license plate was concerned, he hadn’t bothered taking a very good look at it. What was the point? Besides, the car pulled out and took off so fast, he wouldn’t have been able to see anything if he wanted to. The cops had been in such a hurry, he was surprised they hadn’t broadsided anyone when they tore through the intersection at the end of the block.

When Harvath had heard enough, he nodded to Max that he was finished. Heinrich knew what was coming and flattened himself down in the trunk just as Max slammed the lid shut.

Just in case Heinrich might be listening, Herman drew the men several yards away from the car so they could talk. “Now we know at least part of what happened to your friend.”

“Those guys obviously weren’t cops and to go to that great a risk in broad daylight,” said Max, shaking his head, “someone must have wanted your friend very badly.”

“I agree. So, what do you want to do?” asked Sebastian.

“If Heinrich saw something, chances are somebody else did as well,” replied Harvath.

“Like what?” said Herman “Something that looked like a police arrest? Even if we could find witnesses, they will have their own version of what happened. You know how these things go. People subconsciously color events with their own details—things they thought they saw. At best, we might get a partial description of the men who jumped your friend.”

“Or maybe a partial license plate,” responded Harvath.

Herman rubbed his forehead again with the butt of his hand before responding. “I think the odds are not in our favor.”

Harvath was getting progressively more frustrated. “
Not in our favor?
I don’t know how you conduct investigations in Germany, but—”

“The police conduct investigations,” answered Sebastian, “and they are already crawling all over that neighborhood questioning everyone about the shooting. Herman is right. The odds of finding someone with something of value are not in our favor. Witnesses are too unreliable.”

Harvath told himself to calm down. He knew that often his temper could get the better of him. These men were on his side. They had stuck their necks out to help him and he needed to bear that in mind. There had to be something they could do. Seeing red was not going to help. Then it hit him!
Seeing red.

“What about video?”

“
Video?
What video?”

“There was a bank across the street from the apartment. They had two ATM machines outside with a red logo above them. What about their security footage?”

“You mean footage from cameras positioned to monitor people going in and out of the bank and using the ATMs?”

“Yes.”

“I would imagine the footage would only show people going in and out of the bank and using the ATMs.”

“But it might show something else.”

Herman shook his head. “It’s a long shot.”

“At this point, a long shot is all we have,” said Harvath.

“He may be right,” said Max. “Many of the security cameras now incorporate improved wide-angle lenses with increased depth of field. In case of a robbery, there’s a lot more information available on what was happening outside the bank, such as where the escape vehicle was parked, which direction it took and so on.”

“Speaking of which,” said Harvath, glad that his theory was gaining ground, “What about the traffic cameras at both intersections on Goltzstrasse?”

“Those I am not so sure of,” responded Max. “They only activate when a traffic violation has taken place and they are limited to photographing the vehicle while it is in the intersection.”

“But it sounds like the car we’re looking for may have committed a traffic violation leaving the scene,” said Harvath.

“It’s possible,” replied Max.

“Of course it’s possible, especially if they were in a hurry. With a snatch and grab, the key is to get away as fast as possible. You don’t wait around for anything. You want to get the hell out of there.”

“But even if we did agree with you about the footage,” said Herman. “How are we going to get access to it?”

“That’s simple,” said Max with a smile, anticipating the challenge. “We’ll go in and take it.”

“Absolutely not,” replied Sebastian, who turned his attention to Harvath. “I appreciate what you did for me in the apartment and I don’t want you to doubt that, but this has become very dangerous. What we did for you, we did as a favor to Herman and that favor is now over. Without some clear and evident threat to German national security, there is nothing else we can do for you.”

Harvath had known that this moment would come. He had been trying to figure out exactly what, and how much, he could tell Herman and the rest of the MEK operatives to extend their cooperation, but not jeopardize his assignment. As he stood facing Herman, Sebastian, and Max, he made a decision. It was the moment of truth, or half-truth at least. He carefully reviewed in his mind what he was going to say and offered, “The United States is being faced with a very serious and imminent terrorist action which is to take place in less than seven days. The man I came looking for has information that could help prevent that attack. The terrorists know this and we believe that is why he was kidnapped.”

“What kind of attack are we talking about?” asked Sebastian.

“Something very big that will happen in several different U.S. cities on the same day.”

“And what is the threat to Germany?”

“There is a remote chance the terrorists may have plans to target the major cities of our allies as well.”

“Do you know who the terrorists are?” asked Herman.

Though he hated to do it, he had to. Harvath looked his friend right in the eye and kept on lying. “No, we have no idea.”

“So,” continued Sebastian, “you are saying that there may or may not be plans to launch a major terrorist action within the Federal Republic of Germany by a group of unknown persons sometime within the next seven days?”

“Yes.”

“Why hasn’t your government shared this information with us?”

“Because it’s highly speculative as to the risk Germany faces.”

“How speculative the risk should be up to us to ascertain.”

“I agree, which is why I am telling you this.”

“In all fairness, you haven’t told us much,” replied Herman.

“You now know what we know. Listen, this whole thing can be derailed if we locate the man I am looking for.”

“Who is he?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t say, or won’t say,” queried Sebastian, “because I have to have more than you’ve given me if I am going to authorize any more cooperation.”

Harvath met Sebastian’s gaze and realized he was going to have to give the man something substantial. “His name is Gary Lawlor.”

The three men standing in front of him were stunned.

“The deputy director of the FBI?” asked Herman.