State of the Union (35 page)

T
hey ended up spending half of the day in the SIOC. With Alexandra’s knowledge of Helmut Draegar, Russian Intelligence, and the events that had transpired, she was suddenly deemed an asset too valuable to let go. As Harvath watched, she fielded question after question and gave her opinion to the agents taking down sleepers on everything from interrogation tactics to potential hiding spots for Russian nukes. Soon, no one made a move without consulting her first. Though the shift in operational control unsettled some of the FBI’s higher-ups, one look at what Alexandra was doing was enough to convince them that the trust their agents were putting in her was well founded. Her advice was solid.

The good news was that the pickup teams had gotten to the sleepers before Draegar did. The bad news was that they were proving extremely resolute. Across the country, once captured, they gave up little to no information whatsoever.

Finally, Harvath had seen enough. His country needed him. If Alexandra Ivanova wanted to continue to play oracle at Delphi, that was fine with him, but he needed to check out their other leads. Standing around doing nothing was more than he could stand.

It took Harvath another hour to track down the FBI’s director, but once he did, the man pledged to him any support he needed.

The first thing Harvath needed was a helicopter that could get in and out of tight spaces—one that could land on a building without a helipad or in the middle of a narrow DC side street, and the HRT Bell 412 sitting on the roof of FBI Headquarters just didn’t fit the bill. What’s more, HRT’s other birds were already in use. It only took one call to Andrews Air Force Base to track down an MH-6 Little Bird and a Nightstalker pilot from the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment who was ready to see some action.

Harvath also needed a support team he could trust, and Rick Morrell and Company, still in the building on reserve, were more than happy to help him out. A quartermaster and armorer from Quantico were sent up to see to all the team’s needs. The team was outfitted in black, fire-retardant Nomex fatigues, HellStorm tactical assault gloves, and First Choice body armor. Included with the cache laid out by the armorer, were several newly arrived futuristic .40-caliber Beretta CX4 Storm carbines, as well as Model 96 Beretta Vertec pistols, also in .40 caliber. There was something about being able to interchange their magazines that Harvath found very comforting.

A Picatinny rail system allowed him to outfit the CX4 Storm with an under-mounted laser sight and an above-mounted Leupold scope. He shoved as much extra ammunition as he could get his hands on into his empty pockets and after grabbing a pair of night vision goggles, headed up to the roof with the rest of the team.

When they were all on board, the improved MH-6 Little Bird with its new six-bladed rotor and upgraded, silenced engine lifted off and headed northwest to upper Georgetown and the antique shop.

The pilot found a relatively empty parking lot where he could set the Little Bird down and as soon as the skids were within two feet of the ground the team was out and running. The State of the Union address was less than eight hours away.

They were met at the shop by an FBI forensics detail, who respectfully stood back as both Harvath and Alexandra searched for anything out of the ordinary. When they had questions about phone records, the contents of the computer hard drive in the shop’s office, or who the antique dealer’s predominantly high-end customers had been, one of the forensic agents would pick up one of the detail’s many clipboards, sift through the pages and once she had found it, deliver the information as quickly and succinctly as possible. The message had come down loud and clear: Harvath and Alexandra were in a hurry and there was no time to waste.

The antique shop was a bust, as was David Patrick’s nearby apartment. Their last stop was an upscale high-rise called the Park Connecticut where the antiques dealer had lived right up until he had been murdered. It was located in a DC area known as Northwest and occupied a prime piece of real estate just above Dupont Circle along Rock Creek Park. The Nightstalker pilot landed the Little Bird on the Park Connecticut’s rooftop terrace and the team took the fire stairs down to the ninth floor.

Another forensics detail met Harvath and his colleagues at the door and led them through the grand foyer, past the gourmet kitchen with its granite countertops, and into the spacious living room, which had been crammed full of beautiful hand-carved antique hardwood furniture. Framed thank-you notes from diplomats, boutique hotels, private collections, and individual customers recognizing the dealer’s prowess and eye for rare pieces lined one entire wall. Though this FBI detail was confident that they would find something to tie the killer to the crime scene, they had no idea what the bigger picture was. They knew who had killed the antiques dealer. It was Draegar. What they didn’t know was where Draegar was now and what he was planning to do next. That was the type of clue they needed to find.

The apartment included a gas fireplace and French doors that opened out onto the balcony. In addition to its lavish master bedroom, there was also a den and two marble bathrooms. Harvath and Alexandra quickly began picking the place apart piece by piece. They went through closets, drawers, and bookcases while they fired off questions at the forensics agents to try and get a better picture of the antiques dealer.

They studied the blood stained tub where the man’s body had been found, shot twice in the face. Looking at his Kobold, Harvath noticed it was closing in on five o’clock p.m.—right around the approximate time yesterday that the forensics people claimed the antiques dealer had been killed.

After completely tossing the bathroom, Harvath headed back into the living room and asked one of the forensics agents, “We’ve got a copy of the building’s surveillance tape from yesterday, right?”

“Of course we do,” the man answered, rummaging through an evidence box and pulling it out for Harvath to see. “We already went through it and there’s nobody on there that matches Helmut Draegar’s description.”

“How far back did you go?”

“Hours, just on the off chance that he had snuck in here early and had laid in wait for the victim.”

Harvath fired up the antique dealer’s television and VCR. The tape showed pictures from four different cameras placed throughout the building, including the front and back doors, as well as the garage.

“I’m telling you,” said the forensics agent, “we went back and forth over that tape and there was no sign of your man on it at all. If there was, we would have caught it.”

“Not if he didn’t want you to,” replied Harvath as he began shuttling the tape forward.

“You just passed at least five guys on there,” said Avigliano, wondering how Harvath could make sense of any of the images at this speed.

But somehow, Morrell knew what Harvath was doing and stated, “You’re not looking for guys, are you?”

“Not looking for
guys
? What are you talking about?” asked DeWolfe.

“It would be just like Draegar,” said Alexandra. “Perfect tradecraft. He’d befriend somebody, probably another tenant, and then use them.”

Finally, Harvath found what he was looking for and paused the tape. Yesterday afternoon at 4:07 p.m. a couple entered the building through the garage. The man’s face was totally obscured from view by the woman who appeared to be helping him carry several packages.

“Jesus,” said DeWolfe, “Do you think that’s him?”

Harvath advanced the video frame by frame. Draegar was a pro. With the woman shielding him and his face turned away from the camera, there was absolutely no record of him ever having been in the building. “I know it’s him.”

“So he was here, in the building. We know that much,” offered Morrell. “That’s good.”

“We also now know something else,” offered Harvath, as his eyes remained locked on the TV screen.

“What’s that?” asked Carlson.

Picking up his CX4 Storm as he headed for the door, Harvath stated, “Where he’s hiding.”

W
ith less than three hours before the State of the Union address, president Jack Rutledge had cleared the Oval Office so he could be alone and he now stared at two different folders sitting on the desk in front of him, which contained two very different versions of his State of the Union address.

One gave the Russians what they wanted—a message from a humbled American president pulling his country out of the sphere of world politics while, the other was a spit-in-the-eye and a hearty
fuck you
to any individual, terrorist organization, rogue state, or internationally recognized nation who thought they could blackmail the United States.

The irony that one speech lay in a red folder and the other sat in one of presidential blue—all the while separated by a white desk blotter—was not lost on Jack Rutledge.

Meanwhile, outside the Oval Office, Rutledge knew that his aides were pulling their hair out, wondering what his next move would be. Most of them, along with Congress, save for the absolute diehards, had either been evacuated to a secure location outside the metropolitan DC area, or had been sent home to be with their families while the tangled web of events played out.

All that anyone knew at this point was that President Rutledge had taped two State of the Union addresses from the Oval Office and no one was certain which one was going to air.

If the truth be told, Rutledge himself didn’t even know. His daughter, Amanda, had already been evacuated to Andrews Air Force Base and was awaiting him aboard Air Force One while he sat within the deceptive calm of what could only be described as the eye of the most deadly hurricane to ever descend upon the Oval Office.

With his personal helicopter, designated as
Marine Corps One
, sitting hot and ready to move just outside the West Wing, Jack Rutledge tried to put the pleadings of his staff and Secret Service detail out of his mind. Like president George Washington over two hundred years before him, he was bound and determined to deliver his State of the Union address live, not via tape while he and Congress cowered either in a plane 35,000 feet above the United States or deep inside some secret underground complex. What’s more, president Jack Rutledge was going to be damned if his stewardship of the United States of America was going to be undermined by the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics or whatever name the fucking red horde was calling itself these days.

Rutledge glanced at his watch and though he knew time was very tight, decided he would wait just a little bit longer. After all, the Americans had something going for them that the Russians didn’t.

A
Mulland
Jacket,” repeated Harvath into his microphone, louder this time so Morrell could hear him over the roar of wind pouring through the Little Bird’s open doors. “It’s a very exclusive tweed coat made for hunting by a company called Holland and Holland. The president gave it to Gary a couple of years back as a gift on one of their pheasant trips and Draegar had one on in that surveillance tape.”

“And that’s what makes you think he’s been using Gary’s house as his home base?”

“Why not? It makes perfect sense. The FBI has pulled off their surveillance and it’s safer than checking in to a hotel or motel. Draegar’s not stupid. All we’d need to do is circulate his photo and sooner or later we’d have him.”

“Why not shack up with one of the sleepers?”

“I don’t think he trusts them. Would you? I agree with Sorce that the reason the antiques dealer bought it was because he was probably trying to back out. If you were having second thoughts, the best thing you could do would be to kill Draegar.” Harvath paused a moment before continuing. “No, he couldn’t risk counting on the sleepers to put him up. It could jeopardize the entire mission if they were caught together. He’d want somewhere he knew he could be completely safe. Besides, what better way to rub it in Gary’s face than to use his own place as a safe house?”

“You could burn it,” replied Morrell as an uneasy silence settled over them.

They watched as the winter sun sank below the horizon and the helicopter cut through the cold air, west, towards Fairfax. There were less than three hours to go until the State of the Union.

The Little Bird touched down in a field half a mile from Gary Lawlor’s home and rendezvoused with another helicopter transporting two HRT assault teams. In conjunction with Fairfax law enforcement, Harvath helped sketch a picture of Gary’s neighborhood, his property and then the house itself. He detailed all of the windows and doors and then discussed what he felt were the best entry points for the HRT teams, which had been labeled Red Team and Blue Team. Harvath and Alexandra, along with Morrell and his men, were labeled Gold Team. Though Director Sorce had been dead set against Alexandra carrying a gun, Harvath gave her his Beretta pistol anyway. In his mind, if they were all taking the same risks, they all deserved to be afforded the same protections.

Once the fine points of the takedown had been established and agreed to, the Fairfax officers transported the three assault teams in as far as they could. A perimeter had been established by uniformed officers for four blocks in every direction around Gary Lawlor’s home. Until Harvath said so, no one was getting in or out of that part of the neighborhood.

Both the MH-6 Little Bird and the HRT chopper were equipped with second generation Forward Looking Infrared and having them keep an eye on things from above made Harvath feel a lot better as he and the rest of his Gold Team crept through the woods bordering the rear of Gary’s property.

It was an eerie sensation, not only because he was right back where he had started from a week ago, but because whoever took the picture of him at Gary’s barbecue that he had found onboard the
Gagarin
had come this exact same way.

When they reached the edge of the tree line, Harvath used his night vision goggles to scan the property. It didn’t come as much of a surprise that he wasn’t seeing anything. The other teams radioed in from their positions. Besides a car parked in the driveway in front, there were no other signs that anyone was home. The helicopters weren’t picking up anything from inside the house either. They all knew though, that that didn’t mean there wasn’t a surprise waiting for them. After all, had the same helicopters been there a week ago, when he was wearing his IR camouflage suit they would have had no idea Harvath was inside.

Everyone listened over their earpieces as the Red Team leader counted down the seconds before giving the
Go
command. Assaulters had positioned themselves under windows and alongside the house with ladders as Harvath and his team crept through the backyard and got ready to breach via the backdoor. To everyone who was there that night, the next several seconds seemed to last a lifetime.

When the command came, Red Team tossed flashbang grenades through the front windows and used shock rounds to blow the hinges off the front door. Blue Team used long poles to break the upper windows and pitch in their flashbangs while the rest of their team scrambled up ladders or tossed more flashbangs through the lower windows and prepared to dive in.

Harvath swung an enormous sledgehammer that one of the Fairfax police had given him and shattered the lock assembly on the mudroom door. He and Morrell were first in, followed by Alexandra and then the rest of the team.

The mudroom was littered with coats and other assorted items that had been knocked off of the pegs and shelves. A bucket of Oxyclean had spilled onto the floor and in the greenish glow of his night vision goggles Harvath thought he could make out a footprint.

Opening the door to the kitchen, Harvath yelled out, “Banger!” as Morrell pitched in an underhanded flashbang. The members of Gold Team turned their heads away from the blast and once the device had detonated, rushed into the room unopposed. None of them noticed the tripwires until it was too late.

Alexandra was the only one to hear the slight twang, like a piece of piano wire being plucked, followed by a barely audible pop as the explosive was engaged.

“We’ve got a body here,” began one of the members of Blue Team who had come in through one of the house’s second-story windows. He was quickly cut off by Alexandra’s frantic cries of, “Get out! Get out! It’s a trap!”

“Gold Team,” said Red Team’s leader with the calm and presence of mind that came with being a seasoned operative, “give us a Sit Rep. What are you looking at?”

Harvath’s eyes swept from side to side and then down to the ground, trying to see what Alexandra was yelling about. Morrell did the same, but soon they were both being yanked by their collars as Alexandra pulled them backwards.

“The house is booby trapped! It’s going to explode,” she yelled as the rest of Gold Team cleared the way behind her. “All teams pull your men back now!”

Gold Team barely made it out the back door before the house erupted in an incredible pillar of fire. Harvath had seen an explosion like that only once before in his life, and it was in an ATF video of a moonshiner who had convinced himself that with the case against him he had nothing left to live for and had decided to take every government agent into the afterlife with him that he could. The man had rigged his home with explosives, but had kept gallons upon gallons of accelerant contained in perforated gas cans so there’d be no real smell until it was already too late. The bizarre parallels between the explosions aside, Draegar either had known that someone would be on his trail eventually, or had left a little present for Gary on his eventual return home.

Gold Team was showered with broken glass and smoldering debris as they rolled across the backyard and tried to extinguish the burning embers that clung like red-hot coals to their Nomex suits. Had it not been for Alexandra, most of Gold Team would no longer be alive.

The explosives had been concentrated in the center of the house and the trip wires rigged so that entire assault teams would have time to make it inside before the fireworks started. Whoever Draegar was preparing for, he had made sure that there was very little possibility of them getting out alive.

That night, the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team suffered more fatalities than during any other assignment in the two plus decades they had been in existence. Eleven men were dead.

While Gold Team wrapped a wrist here and pulled glass out of a laceration there, they each found time to privately thank Alexandra for saving their lives. Harvath, though, stood off to the side alone and wondered if there was any limit to what Helmut Draegar would do to complete his assignment. It was an exercise in futility. He knew that there was not only no limit to what Draegar would do to succeed in his mission, but that the man also approached his personal animosities with the same, if not a greater passion.

The fire had torched a good portion of the house, a testament to Draegar’s knowledge of explosives and the amount of accelerant he had sloshed around the interior of the structure.

Harvath knew that Gary would be heartbroken. He and Heide had built this home together, and it was one of the precious few tangible reminders he still had of their life together.

As multiple fire engine companies arrived to help extinguish the blaze, Harvath became fixated upon the body that the Blue Team operative had seen upstairs, as well as the car, which had been parked in the driveway, and was now nothing more than a flaming hulk.

The wondering was killing him and he stuck to the Fairfax County Arson Investigator like glue as the man, along with hastily summoned ATF agents, probed further into the wreckage of Gary Lawlor’s home and the firefighters got the blaze under control.

One of the firefighters eventually brought out a badly charred wallet and using a pair of forceps provided by one of the Fairfax EMTs, Harvath pulled out several damaged pieces of identification. Laying them side by side it was easy to see who they had originally belonged to—David Patrick, aide to the Deputy Secretary of the National Security Council.

The firefighters continued to battle the blaze as Harvath regrouped with the rest of his team. “So what the hell do we do now?” asked Avigliano as he flexed his hand and tested the bandage that had been wrapped around his left wrist. “I’ll be fucked if I’m going to stand here and roast marshmallows,” he said and then quickly added for Harvath’s benefit, “No offense.”

Harvath understood his sentiment completely. When men you know die, not only are the stakes considerably raised, but so is your desire to finish what you and those men had started together. Draegar had made this assignment even more personal for them.

With the house in flames, Harvath turned his attention to the car smoldering in Gary Lawlor’s driveway. He assumed that it belonged to David Patrick, but at the same time, something inside told him that when it came to anything having to do with Helmut Draegar, nothing should be accepted prima facie.

He instructed a team of firefighters to get as much water on the car as possible. If the license plates couldn’t be salvaged, he wanted the VIN number, and he wanted it within the next five minutes.

The firefighters had the VIN number for him in three. They were glad that’s all he wanted. Everything else was burned beyond recognition.

Harvath asked the Fairfax police chief to run it. In the meantime, SIOC called Harvath with the latest update on the sleeper arrests. The evidence techs had been instructed to make lists of everything, no matter how insignificant, and to run those lists against what the other field agents were finding.

They had come up with two commonalities, neither of which made very much sense. The first, was that each of the sleepers was carrying two portable hydraulic jacks with jack stands in the trunks of their cars and the second, was that in the last twenty-four hours, each sleeper had purchased flowers. Harvath put the controllers at SIOC on hold while he explained the latest development to Alexandra, only to find she was just as confused as he was. The jacks might have something to do with how heavy the devices were, but why would you need two of them, and what the hell could flowers possibly have to do with what they were up to?

Harvath told SIOC they would get back to them and ended the call. He and Alexandra were still wondering aloud what the flower connection might be when the Fairfax police chief returned with a positive ID on the car sitting smoking in the driveway. He thanked the chief and then turned toward the backyard and yelled for DeWolfe.

The communications expert came limping up on his damaged ankle and asked, “What’s up?”

“We’ve got a positive ID on the car in the driveway. It’s a Dollar Rent-A-Car out of Dulles from two days ago.”

“You want to know who rented it?”

“No,” said Harvath. “I’ve got a pretty good idea who rented it. I want to know where it’s been.”

DeWolfe was wiped out. He looked from Alexandra to Scot and in all sincerity said, “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

Harvath could read not only the pain from his injury, but also the stress that was written across the man’s face and replied, “When I was training with the Secret Service before I moved to the White House, I worked a counterfeiting case where some Colombian was bringing bogus fifties and hundreds into the country. The bills were almost perfect. He’d even run them through his clothes dryer at home along with a couple of hundred poker chips to give them just the right look. We were going crazy trying to nail him. He wasn’t considered a very big fish by the higher-ups, and therefore the amount of resources allocated to the case were less than what we would have liked to have seen.”

“But you found a way to pop him anyway, didn’t you?” said DeWolfe.

Harvath smiled and replied, “There’s something about flying into Miami International that automatically makes people forget about everything else. I don’t know if it’s the sea breeze, the palm trees, the beautiful women, or what, but this guy cleared passport control, then customs, and went outside and boarded one of the Thrifty buses to go get his big fancy four-door rental car.”