State of the Union (2 page)

F
rank Leighton was scared. In fact if the truth were told, the man was absolutely terrified.

The call had come in the middle of the night, the voice more machine than human. It sounded tinny, canned somehow, as if it was coming from far away. But it wasn’t the sound of the voice that had shaken him. It was the message.

It took Leighton several moments to clear the cobwebs from his head—his sleep had been that deep. And why not? He was retired after all. Sleeping with one eye open while guarding against the cold knife blade that could be slipped between his ribs by a supposed ally, or listening for the telltale whisper of an anonymous assassin’s bullet fired from a silenced weapon, were all part of his past. Or so he had thought.

Twenty-five pounds overweight and fifteen years out of the game, Frank Leighton took a quick shower, shaved, and then combed his head of thick, gray hair. The years hadn’t been kind to him. When he looked in the mirror and said to himself, “I am way too old for this,” he was telling the God’s honest truth.

The initial spurt of adrenaline that had come with the phone call had long since passed, so Leighton decided to brew a pot of coffee while he considered his options. It was a short period of reflection, as he had no options. That was exactly the way the protocol had been designed.

When the coffee was ready, Leighton filled his mug to within two-and-a-half inches of the rim, then grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet above the refrigerator and filled the mug the rest of the way. “
The breakfast of champions
,” he thought to himself as he took the mug and headed past a butler’s pantry into the laundry and storage room that doubled as his home office.

While he waited for his computer to boot up, he gazed at a picture of his sister, Barbara, and her two kids. Maybe he should call her. Warn her. She still had the cabin in Wyoming. They would be safe there. He wouldn’t have to tell her why. She would trust him. She would do what he asked. It was important for them to be safe, at least until he could complete his assignment.
How in the world
, he wondered,
had things come to this?
And after all these years.

The opening of his web browser interrupted Leighton’s pondering. He went to the American Airlines website and ran through all of the international flights leaving from Washington that morning. When he found the flight he wanted, he began the process of booking the ticket. He had no idea if the old Capstone Corporation credit card still worked. It was the only way to reserve and pay for the flight, as he no longer kept large stores of cash in the house. That was something he had left behind in his old career, his old life.

If the card still was still active, the little-known bank in Manassas, Virginia, would accept any expiration date he entered into the computer. Leighton had no need to fish the card, or the false passport that matched the name on the card, from its hiding place within the old lobsterman’s buoy stored in a corner of the boathouse behind his home. When one’s life has hung by a delicate thread for years upon end, certain things are never forgotten. He entered the credit card number by heart and waited while the American Airlines site processed his request. Moments later, a confirmation number and seat assignment appeared on the screen.

Leighton knew that a same-day ticket purchase was going to raise a lot of red flags, so transporting a weapon was out of the question. He would have to wait until he got there. Once he arrived, he would have access to more than enough firepower, and money—if everything had been left in place.

It had to have been
. The fact that the Capstone credit card still worked, hell, the fact that he had even been called after all this time was reason enough to believe that he would find things just as he had left them fifteen years ago.

But what the hell was going on?
Could it be a test? If so, why test him? Surely, they had younger, more capable operatives—operatives who were actually
active
. None of this made any sense. If you were going to run the world’s most important horse race, why drag in old warhorses from the pasture for it?

Frank Leighton’s mind was overflowing with questions and as they began to get the better of him, he slammed an iron door on his misgivings and secondguessing. He reminded himself of what they all had been taught, the one thing that had been drilled into them over and over again—
The protocol will never be wrong. The protocol is infallible
.

As he pulled himself together and shut down his computer, Leighton thought again about calling his sister. If his mission didn’t succeed, at least she and the kids would have a chance. Then he thought again. No, he couldn’t call her. Despite how much he wanted to, the protocol was explicit. There had been no indication that this was coming. Nothing. But at the same time, it was one of the eventualities they had been told to be prepared for—something coming out of the clear blue sky.

After Leighton had thought about it some more, he rationalized that there was one person he could call; someone like him—someone who would have been contacted as well. They wouldn’t have to discuss details; the tone of their voices would say everything.

He retrieved his cache from the old lobsterman’s buoy in the boathouse and brought it back inside to his bedroom where he quickly packed a small suitcase full of clothes. After throwing in what looked like an oversized PDA, he opened the manila envelope from the buoy and spread its contents across the top of his dresser.

The passport was going to need some tweaking. He would need to update some of the stamps and of course, change its expiration date. He’d need to do the same thing for the driver’s license. The credit card and false business cards were slid into various pockets of the sport coat he had hung on the knob of the closet door.

Other items, like the pre–European Union currency, which was no longer of any use, were dropped into a metal wastebasket. An old coded list of names, addresses, and phone numbers was recommitted to memory and then dropped into the wastebasket as well.

Now was the time to place the phone call. Leighton walked back into his kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed. He felt like he was in one of those nightmares where everything moved in slow motion. The ringing of the telephone on the other end seemed to take forever. Finally, on the fifth ring, there was what sounded like someone picking up. Relief flooded through him. If the man he was calling was still at home, maybe he hadn’t been activated. Maybe this was all some sort of mistake. The feeling, though, was short-lived as Leighton realized he had reached the man’s voice mail. He didn’t bother leaving a message.

Nothing but the assignment mattered now. He could trust no one. Everyone and everything at this point was suspect. He retrieved a bottle of starter fluid from beneath the kitchen sink and doused the contents of the metal wastebasket. There could be no trace left behind. Leighton set the wastebasket outside on his stone patio, struck a match and watched as the assortment of papers went up in flames. When he was positive they were burned beyond recognition, he used the lid of his kettle grill to choke out the fire and after emptying it, returned the wastebasket inside.

Two hours later, having expertly altered his false passport and driver’s license with the drafting supplies he had held onto for just such a purpose, the house locked up and the suitcase in the trunk of his car, Frank Leighton pulled out of his driveway and headed toward the airport, committed to his assignment and the havoc he was about to let loose upon the world.

S
cot Harvath sat in the Hotel Del Coronado’s Babcock & Story bar sipping one of their signature margaritas, but his mind was a million miles away. Coming home had not been easy for him, at least not like this, but his mother had insisted, and if nothing else, Harvath was a good son.

It had been ten years since they had laid his father to rest and on this anniversary, his mother thought it appropriate that they do something to remember him. Scot didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that he remembered his father almost every day, because he knew she did too. Michael Harvath had been a good man—a good husband, a good father, a good soldier, and the reason Scot Harvath had become a Navy SEAL.

It was during a training mission that Harvath’s father, a SEAL instructor at the Naval Special Warfare Center, was killed in a demolitions accident. At the time of the accident, Scot was training with the U.S. Freestyle ski team in Park City, Utah. He had been with the team for several years at that point, much to the chagrin of his father. Michael Harvath had not worked as hard as he had to watch his son forgo college for a career in professional sports. The two had fought bitterly, as only two proud, headstrong men with passionate convictions can.

The fighting had been a strain on their relationship; one that Scot’s mother had worked tirelessly to try to mend. It was as if she had somehow sensed that her husband’s life was going to be cut short. It was only through his mother’s Herculean efforts that the family stayed together at all. The stronger Michael pushed, the more Scot pulled away and pursued his own path. Father and son were more alike than either of them realized. By the time Scot figured this out for himself, his father was already gone.

The loss was devastating. Scot’s mother had lost her husband, but it could be argued that the greater grief was Scot’s, who had not only lost his father, but had lost him with so many things between them left unsaid and unfinished.

Up until his father’s death, Scot had done extremely well on the World Cup circuit and had been favored to medal in the upcoming Olympics, but try as he might, after his father’s death he just couldn’t get his head back into competitive skiing. It suddenly wasn’t important any more.

Instead, he chose to immediately follow in his father’s footsteps. After graduating from college cum laude in less than three years, he joined the Navy where he passed the rigorous Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL selection program, also known as BUD/S, and was made a SEAL. With his expertise in skiing, he was tasked to Team Two, known as the cold-weather specialists, or Polar SEALs. With an exceptional aptitude for languages and a desire for even more action, Harvath applied, and was eventually accepted to Team Six, the Navy’s elite counterterrorism detachment, also known as Dev Group. It was while he was with Dev Group that Scot Harvath came to the attention of the United States Secret Service.

Whenever a President made an appearance on or near water, the SEALs were called upon to provide support. Harvath was part of a contingent that assisted several such protective details for a former president who loved to race his Cigarette boats off the coast of Maine. Scot had proven himself to be extremely talented on many occasions, but when he discovered and defused an explosive device meant to disrupt one of the president’s outings, the Secret Service stood up and took notice. They had been looking for someone just like him to help improve the ways in which they protected the president.

It took some doing, but the Secret Service eventually succeeded in wooing Scot to join their team. After Harvath completed his courses at the Secret Service advanced-training facility in Beltsville, Maryland, he joined the presidential protective detail based at the White House. A lot had happened since then. Harvath had not only rescued the president from kidnappers and helped to prevent a major war in the Middle East, but also realized along the way that the life of a Secret Service agent was not for him. Surprisingly, the president had agreed and tasked Harvath to a new assignment.

President Jack Rutledge had added a new weapon in his war on terrorism. As part of his reorganization of the American Intelligence community and renewed dedication to countering terrorism, the president had created a special international branch of the Homeland Security Department dubbed the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA. The group represented the collective intelligence capability and full muscle of the United States government to help neutralize and prevent terrorist actions against America and American interests on a global level.

Though Harvath’s title at the OIIA was listed as a “special agent,” very few people knew what his job actually entailed. The benign title led most to believe that he worked in the field, assisting foreign governments and law enforcement agencies in their counterterrorism efforts. That, after all, was the express mission statement of the OIIA. Had Congress known Harvath’s true marching orders, the Office of International Investigative Assistance would never have gotten their budget approved.

Thinking about his deceased father often led Scot to think about the man who had become like a second father to him. It was this same person whom the president had tapped to head the new OIIA—former Deputy Director of the FBI, Gary Lawlor. Having been the number two man in the world’s premier law enforcement organization, Lawlor was a perfect choice. The president also appreciated the special relationship that existed between Lawlor and Harvath. It was precisely that relationship Harvath was considering when his girlfriend, Meg Cassidy, walked into the bar.

“Have you heard from him?” she asked as she sat down on the empty stool next to Scot.

“Nothing,” he answered, spinning his cell phone on the bar in front of him. “What about in the room? Any messages?”

“None at all. What did the airline say?”

“It took my contact a while to get to the bottom of it, but he said that apparently Gary had gotten on the plane and that just as they were preparing to close the doors and push back, he jumped up and demanded to be let off. Flashed his credentials and everything. It freaked the hell out of the passengers.”

Meg looked at Scot as he absorbed this piece of information. It would all probably turn out to be nothing, but for now it seemed worrisome, especially in light of his new job. Though Scot didn’t go into a lot of detail, the fact that they had met when he had rescued her from a hijacked airliner in Cairo, and that in his mid-thirties he was in better shape than most men even ten years younger, told Meg that the new position the president had assigned him to probably didn’t involve pushing a lot of paper. He was a soldier on America’s front line in the war against terrorism, and Meg was smart enough to know what that meant. It meant not asking a lot of questions and being prepared for anything, even the worst. She was willing to do that for him. In the little over six months they had been together, she had come to care for Scot Harvath very deeply. So much so, that she was even considering relocating her entire business from Chicago to Washington, DC, moving away from all of her friends and contacts, and building a new life with this man.

With his ruggedly handsome face, sandy brown hair, blue eyes and muscular five-foot-ten frame, Scot Harvath was quite a catch by any woman’s standards, but it was the man inside that had most attracted her from the beginning. In addition to his wit and intelligence, there was something else. He was driven by one simple objective—doing the right thing no matter what the cost. In a world so often governed by self-interest, being in the company of a man like Scot Harvath made Meg realize what a noble life worth living was really about, but she also realized that the quality she most admired in him might also turn out to one day to be his downfall.

Scot’s desire to always do the right thing had made him an unwilling to compromise or bend even a fraction of an inch when it came to his principles. He had been called arrogant at times, and Meg could understand why, but people who saw arrogance in him were missing the point. Scot Harvath believed. He believed in himself. He believed in his abilities, and what’s more, he believed in his country and the jobs it sent him to do. No matter what the risk or how great the danger he always willingly stepped up when his country needed him.

Right now though,
he
needed something and it was more information. “What would make Gary jump up and demand to be let off the plane like that?”

“All I can think is that maybe he received a call or got paged at the last minute or something. He wouldn’t go through all of that just because he forgot to turn the iron off at home.”

“Have you tried the office again?” asked Meg, who was equally concerned and growing more worried by the moment.

“I’ve left messages everywhere and have been ringing his pager and his cell every half hour. Not only is he not answering, but nobody seems to know where he is—
nobody
. And that’s not typical Gary. The guy sets up lunch dates months in advance. You should see his Day-Timer. I think people back in DC are beginning to get nervous about it.”

“Do you think something happened to him?”

“At this point, I don’t know what to think. Gary was a friend of my father’s since before I was born. Half the reason he chose to head up the Bureau’s San Diego field office instead of Miami was so that they could be closer together. They were like brothers and I know how much my mom means to him. It’s not like him to miss something like this and not call.”

Meg had known the memorial was going to be tough, and the absence of Gary Lawlor had only made things more stressful. Though Scot hadn’t said anything, she knew he appreciated having her along.

“Okay,” she replied, after the bartender had poured her a glass of wine and then walked to the other end of the bar, “what about calling hospitals? I hate to go that route, but it seems to be one of the only rocks we haven’t looked under.”

As Harvath was reaching for his margarita, his cell phone rang again. On the other end was Alan Driehaus, the director of homeland security. “Where the hell are you?” he demanded.

“Coronado,” answered Harvath.

“Where’s Lawlor?”

“I’ve got no idea. He was supposed to be out here.”

“Has he tried to contact you at all?” asked Driehaus.

“No and that’s what I’m worried about,” responded Harvath.

There was a pause as the homeland security director cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his telephone. Harvath could make out several voices in the background as Driehaus came back on the line and said, “I want you on the next plane back to DC.”

“What for?”

“You’ll be briefed when you get here. This is an urgent matter of national security, so don’t waste any time getting back. And if Lawlor does make contact with you, I want you to find out where he is and let us know right away. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” said Harvath.

“Good,” replied Driehaus, who then terminated the connection.

Harvath punched the
end
button on his cell phone, set it onto the bar and reached for his wallet.

“What is going on?” asked Meg.

Scot finished downing his margarita and said to her, “I need to call my mother and let her know that we won’t be making the memorial service.”