State of the Union (4 page)

I
mpossible!” growled Sergei Stavropol into his satellite phone, careful not to draw the attention of the various technicians and scientists working around him. “I don’t care if that body is inside a wolf, a bear, or some farmer’s hungry pig, I want you to find it, cut it open and bring me the bones. Do you understand me?”

Milesch Popov, the twenty-two-year-old, knife-scarred entrepreneur on the other end of the line, was pissed off. Who the fuck did this man think he was talking to? “You paid me to retrieve the cars from the lodge in Zvenigorod. I could have sold those cars for a lot of money, but our deal was for them to disappear, permanently, and that’s what I made happen. Then, you call me and ask me to go
back
to Zvenigorod to see what the police were up to. They were everywhere, but I went anyway and I took a look like you asked me to. That I did for free, out of good customer service, but what you’re asking me now is out of the question because I—”

Stavropol cut to the chase and interrupted the young Moscow Mafioso, “How much?”

“This isn’t about money.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is the new Russia. Everything is about money.”

“Stolen cars are not exactly in the same category as dead bodies,” said Popov, lowering his voice and readying himself for a tough negotiation.

“You are trying my patience, Milesch. I am a busy man. Name your price,” demanded Stavropol.

Popov thought about it for a moment. In his line of work, he did not get to deal with many highly placed people like Sergei Stavropol. Whatever this was about, it was obviously serious. The papers had been full of the news of the disappearance of three generals and the discovery of two of the bodies behind the old hunting lodge in Zvenigorod. Popov knew his client had had something to do with it and that made the negotiation all the more dangerous. Then again, Popov had learned that men like Stavropol respect only men who respect themselves and set limits. “If I locate your missing package,” said Popov, “I want five hundred thousand dollars U.S. plus expenses.”

“You ungrateful, greedy little fuck,” roared Stavropol. “I should cut your balls off!”

“Watch it, old man,” responded Popov. “You don’t want to give yourself a heart attack.”

“Such insolence! Who do you think you are?”

“I think I’m the guy who’s going to help you sleep at night. My guess is that until you figure out what happened to the unaccounted-for Karganov, a good night’s rest is going to be a little elusive. Am I correct?”

Stavropol said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” said Popov. “I want half of my money up front and the other—”

“No. I will give you ten thousand dollars in advance, the rest upon successful delivery of the package.”

“Now who’s being greedy?”

“Twenty thousand in advance then, and you cover your own expenses,” answered Stavropol.

“Seventy-five thousand, plus expenses, or I take the police to the lake where the dead generals’ cars were mysteriously submerged.”

There was a very long pause before Stavropol responded, “Fine, you have a deal. But, Milesch?”

“Yes?”

“When this is all over, you’d better disappear somewhere far, far away.”

And with that, the line went dead.

F
rom Stockholm, Frank Leighton had taken the overnight ferry to Helsinki. Though he could well afford a first-class cabin with his credit card, he elected to take a lower-profile cabin in second class instead. This was no pleasure cruise and the less conspicuous, the better.

The city of Kotka, Finland, had the largest shipping port in the entire country. It was located approximately one hundred kilometers east of Helsinki along the coast of the Gulf of Finland, facing the Baltic Sea. Kotkansaari Island formed the heart of the city and Leighton knew it well. He knew its bars, its brothels and every place that down-on-their-luck men would congregate.

The rusted trawler and battered dinghy were owned by a struggling fisherman from the nearby coastal village of Björnvik, and was named the
Rebecca
. With the sizable amount of American money Leighton had unearthed outside of Helsinki the day before, he was able to convince the weathered sea captain to part with his aging vessel and sail into early retirement.

The old man wasn’t stupid. This was the chance of a lifetime, the answer to all of his prayers. The fishing had been getting steadily worse in the Baltic, forcing the fishermen to engage in dangerous and illegal forays into neighboring territorial waters, not only to poach fish, but for smuggling as well. Though the old man had never engaged in any illegal activity before in his life, he was definitely not getting any younger. The
Rebecca
wasn’t getting any younger either.

With the transaction complete, the captain handed over the keys to the
Rebecca
and cut his crew loose. When Leighton mentioned that Spain was very nice this time of year, the old man was smart enough to respond that he had always wanted to see the place and would be booking a flight right away.

It had taken Leighton the better part of the morning and into the afternoon to purchase the supplies he needed. When the small island came into view, the sun was already beginning to set.

The Gulf of Finland was dotted with numerous small, uninhabited islands. Aidata Island, Finnish for
barrier
, was aptly named as it was surrounded by jagged rocks and unforgiving sandbars, making it virtually impossible to get to by boat. Leighton coaxed the trawler through a narrow channel on the far side of the island. The passage gave way into a tiny inlet, invisible from the open sea, which was just large enough to moor the
Rebecca
.

The rocky, windswept island was completely deserted. Even the sea birds seemed to avoid it. Its stark terrain was punctuated only by small scrub trees and sickly patches of grass.

After drawing the dinghy alongside the trawler, he loaded his supplies and once again checked the
Rebecca
’s winch. The last thing he needed was for it to snap or become damaged when he returned with his precious cargo. Satisfied that all was in order, he climbed down the rope ladder into the tiny rowboat and rowed himself to shore.

A
re you sure this is a good idea?” asked Meg as she watched Scot getting ready. “If they told you to stay out of it, maybe that’s what you should do. Besides, won’t the FBI be watching his house just in case he comes back?”

“Probably,” answered Harvath. “Where’s that container Rick Morrell dropped off for me?”

Though Harvath had originally had his differences with the CIA paramilitary operative, he and Morrell had grown to respect each other and had even developed a tentative friendship. As Scot removed the odd-looking suit from the black Storm case, he reflected on how it was good to have friends who could get their hands on the latest and greatest equipment.

A note was pinned to the outfit, which read, “I expect this back within two days and don’t get any blood on it.”
Morrell was all heart
.

“What is that thing?” asked Meg as she reached out to touch the alien fabric.

“It’s a next-generation infrared camouflage suit. Not only is the visible pattern extremely effective against detection by the naked eye, but the material itself can reduce a person’s thermal signature by over ninety-five percent.”

“Making you virtually invisible to any Forward Looking Infrared or Thermal Imaging devices.”

“You got it,” said Harvath who had to remind himself from time to time of the comprehensive training Meg had received during their hunt for the terrorist brother and sister team of Hashim and Adara Nidal.

“Gary lives in a nice, well-to-do part of Fairfax. You think the FBI is sitting in front of his house with night vision devices?”

“It’s not the guys in front that I am worried about. It’s the guys in the back where Gary’s property borders the woods. Those are the guys I want to be prepared for,” said Scot as he slid a fresh magazine into his .40-caliber SIG Sauer P229.

Meg’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re taking a weapon with you?”

Harvath glanced at the pistol for a moment and then placed it in the black duffle bag with the rest of his gear for the evening. “Ten men have already been killed,” he said as he threw in two more clips of ammo.

“What do you expect to find there?”

Scot stopped his packing and looked up to meet Meg’s gaze. “To be honest, I have no idea. I don’t even know what it is I’m looking for. All I know is that none of this makes any sense. Somebody has a very deadly list and I need to make sure Gary’s name is not on it.”

“But you said yourself that neither the FBI nor the CIA know if Gary’s a target.”

“Meg, I know what you think, but I owe this to Gary.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean
why?
”

“He’s a grown man. I love him too, but he can take care of himself.”

“What if he can’t?” asked Harvath as he slid the remaining items he thought he might need into the duffle and pulled the zipper shut.

“You don’t even know for sure that he needs saving.”

“Meg, I don’t want this to—” began Harvath, but he was interrupted.

“And even if he is in trouble, why should it be you who saves him?”

“How about the fact that he’s my friend?”

“Are you going to tell me this is something friends do for each other?” she asked as she pulled out a chair on the other side of the table from Harvath and sat down.

“In my world, yes,” answered Scot.

“But Gary didn’t do that for you.”

Harvath knew what she was talking about. When President Rutledge had been kidnapped and Harvath implicated as the only surviving Secret Service agent, Gary had seemed more concerned with getting him to turn himself in, than in helping him figure things out. “That’s not fair,” he responded. “He came through for me. Maybe not right away in the beginning—”

“No, Scot, not at all. It wasn’t until the bitter end. Not until you had provided him with enough evidence did he finally feel safe enough to help you. He didn’t do it just because you two were friends. He did it because he was finally convinced that you
weren’t
guilty. There’s a big, big difference.”

“I don’t agree,” said Harvath as he began walking toward his bedroom to get something.

Meg’s next words stopped him dead in his tracks. “Well, maybe we can agree on this. Gary Lawlor isn’t your father.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” said Scot as he came back into the dining area of his small apartment.

“It means exactly that.”

“Meg, if you’re trying to somehow evaluate my psyche, you’re wasting your time and my time. I don’t care what you think you learned from Oprah or
Redbook
, or wherever you’re getting this stuff, but there are some people out there that are perfectly fine and don’t have any
issues
whatsoever.”

The statement was so patently defensive that Meg had to take a moment to remind herself of what it was she was trying to achieve before responding. She cared enough for Scot Harvath—no, scratch that. She loved Scot Harvath enough to want him to see it for himself. Shoving it in his face wouldn’t get her anywhere, but leading him to it might.

“When was the last time you went skiing?” she asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“A lot. At one point in your past, you were a damn good competitive skier. Now, you don’t even ski recreationally.”

“This has gone beyond ridiculous, I’ve got someplace I have to be,” said Harvath as he went into his bedroom, retrieved the last things he needed, and walked past Meg toward the door.

“All I’m saying, Scot,” offered Meg, “is that it’s not your fault that you and your father weren’t speaking when he died.”

Once again, Harvath stopped in his tracks. Without turning he said, “It was at least fifty percent my fault.”

“And the other fifty was his,” said Meg as she walked over to him. She put her arms around him as she turned him around to look into his eyes. “I want you to know that if he was here right now, he would be proud of you.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“No, but I know you and I know what your mother has told me about how much you two were alike. You carry around a tremendous amount of guilt about what things were like between the two of you when he died. Even if you had continued skiing, he would have been proud of you.”

“I’m saying goodbye now.”

“And I’m saying that Gary Lawlor’s approval is not going to make you feel any better about what happened between you and your father. Let the government find him. You deal with enough danger in your life without having to go and look for it. You don’t need to do this.”

“Yes I do. Ten men have died. I won’t just sit here and cross my fingers and hope that Gary isn’t marked for the number eleven slot,” said Scot, as he turned and walked out the door.

I
t was a blustery night with heavy snow predicted in the forecast. Though Harvath didn’t relish having to cover footprints made in freshly fallen snow, he welcomed the cloud cover as it helped to block out the moonlight.

On his initial drive down Lawlor’s street, he had missed the surveillance. It wasn’t until an hour later that he dared to make another pass and noticed them cleverly hidden in a house across the street.

A white Lincoln Navigator sat cleanly off to one side of the driveway up against one of the garage doors, but why not tuck it away in the oversized three-car garage and protect it from the impending storm? When Harvath drove by for the second time, he got his answer.

As one of the garage doors opened, a casually dressed man whom Harvath assumed was the owner the house, stepped outside to take his recyclables to the curb. Sitting inside alongside a silver Mercedes coupe and a red Volvo station wagon, was a car that screamed FBI—a slightly worse for wear dark blue Dodge four-door. Either these people were concerned about the ability of their maid’s vehicle to weather the approaching storm, or they were trying to help keep the Ford out of sight from people who would recognize it exactly for what it was. Harvath was willing to bet it was the latter.

The most commanding view would have been from one of the upper floor windows facing the street, and a quick glance up was all Scot needed to confirm that he had located one of the surveillance teams. The only question remaining was who was covering the back?

Meg’s words were still ringing in Scot’s ears as he pulled his black Chevy TrailBlazer onto a deserted side road about a mile-and-a-half behind Gary Lawlor’s home. Though he didn’t want to, he had been thinking about what she had said. Unzipping the duffle bag in the cargo area, he tried to put it out of his mind and concentrate on what lay in front of him.

After suiting up and placing the rest of his gear into a small, camouflaged backpack, Harvath set off.

He moved quietly, using a small GPS device to lead him through the forest to the rear of Gary’s property. When he reached the edge of the tree line, he found a spot with a good view of the back of the two-story Colonial-style house and removed a set of night vision goggles. The wind was blowing in fierce gusts, and a light snow had begun to fall.

Harvath took his time scanning the perimeter and didn’t see anything—no intrusion detection measures and no FBI agents. Either the Bureau wasn’t holding out much hope that Lawlor would return to his house or, more likely than not, they had already been inside and the team across the street had been left in place to ‘sit’ on the residence while they applied, ipso facto, for a full blown FISA warrant to search the premises and catalogue anything they had previously found as evidence. Either scenario was fine by Harvath. The absence of a surveillance team in back wouldn’t make his job a complete walk in the park, but it would make things easier.

He took off the night vision goggles and reached into his backpack for his modified Beretta Neos. With its modular design, it looked like a weapon straight out of a
Star Wars
movie. Its magazine held ten rounds of .22 LR–caliber ammunition and the full length of the weapon, before the modified stock and silencer were attached, was only twelve inches, making it very easy to conceal. It was also an extremely accurate weapon, especially when coupled with the advanced, next generation Starlight scope Harvath had brought along for the job.

Having attended many barbecues in Gary Lawlor’s back yard, Scot was familiar with the motion-activated security floodlights installed around the outside of the house. This was probably another part of the reason the FBI had felt the need to only post one team to watch his residence.

As Scot pulled the trigger for the first shot, he said a silent prayer of thanks that the neighbors’ houses were set far enough apart not to be able to hear the
crack
of the silenced rounds as they slammed into and disabled the floodlight sensors.

He disassembled the Neos, put it back in his backpack and put his night vision goggles back on. After slowly scanning the perimeter for any signs that someone might be watching, he made a run for the rear of the house. Fifteen feet before the back door, he already had his lock pick gun in his hand. A few moments’ work on the deadbolt and he was inside.

He hoped Gary hadn’t changed his alarm code. He found the panel in the mudroom, next to the door leading in from the garage and entered the four-digit code Lawlor had given to him the last time he was out of town. It worked. Like most people, Gary was a creature of habit.

Five or six coats, including the Holland and Holland hunting jacket he had received as a gift from the president, hung from an orderly row of pegs above a wooden storage bench where Harvath stowed his backpack and night vision goggles. He attached a red filter to his compact M3 Millennium SureFire flashlight, making the beam virtually invisible to anyone outside the house, and continued on.

The kitchen was neat and orderly, just like Gary himself. There wasn’t a dish in the sink, or a spot of grease on the stovetop. Harvath hadn’t thought about it before, but the degree to which Lawlor kept his house in order was almost sad. Who did he do it for? He lived alone and besides the occasional summer barbecue, no one ever saw the house except for him. It didn’t seem healthy.

Placed above the cabinets were mementos Gary had collected during his travels throughout Europe. There were German beer steins, a drinking bowl from Sweden, a ram’s horn cup from Hungary, a hand-painted Irish jar—the assortment covered almost every country and every type of drinking vessel. Each one, Gary had once explained, had its own special story and special meaning. At the far end of the cabinets was the collector’s edition bottle of Maker’s Mark Harvath had given Lawlor as a Christmas present. It made Scot glad to see that his gift occupied such a place of prominence in his home.

There were fresh vegetables in the fridge along with a new carton of milk. Whatever had caused Gary’s disappearance, it certainly hadn’t been something he had seen coming.

Harvath decided to focus on where he knew Lawlor spent most of his time. He sat at the desk in Gary’s study going through his bills and personal papers trying to find some sort of clue as to what had happened. Numerous commendations and meritorious service awards lined the walls, along with pictures of Gary and Harvath’s father in Vietnam and later with his mother as the three of them enjoyed parties at the house in Coronado and took fishing trips to Mexico. The centerpiece of the room was an enormous oil painting of General George S. Patton and his bull terrier, Willie, short for “William the Conqueror.”

Gary had modeled himself in many ways after the hard-charging general and was a compendium of Patton information. He was always citing one or another of the general’s famous quotes:
Do not fear failure. Do more than is required of you. Make your plans fit the circumstances. There is only one type of discipline
—
perfect discipline.

Harvath felt guilty for being here alone and going through Gary’s bank and retirement account statements, but he knew he had to do it. It was only after he had computed Lawlor’s healthy, yet not by any means legally unachievable net worth, that he realized how ridiculous the exercise was. If Gary had been selling out his country, he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to hide his ill-gotten gains in plain sight. Then what was it? Harvath had come to believe that everyone, no matter how careful they were, always left behind some sort of clue, but there didn’t seem to be anything here at all.

Frustrated, and wondering if the FBI had already bagged any promising items, he left Lawlor’s study and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The guest bedrooms and baths were clean—both literally and figuratively. He approached the master bedroom with a sense of déjà vu. Prowling around Gary’s empty house like this reminded him of what it felt like to return to his parents’ house after his father’s burial ten years ago. His mother had been too distraught to do anything. Closing out his father’s affairs had been left to Scot and Gary. Going through his personal effects, his papers, his clothes—it all felt just like this. It was as if Gary had died. He hoped to God he was wrong.

As he entered the master bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the neatly made bed. The sheets and blankets looked so perfectly tight that Harvath knew he could bounce a quarter off of them military style, just like his father had always done to him.

He ran his finger along the top of the dresser where there was only the slightest trace of dust. Socks, underwear, and handkerchiefs had been neatly pressed and folded and placed in separate drawers. A small brown leather box contained two watches, several pairs of cuff links, several tie clips, and a discarded wedding band.

In the closet, stacks of crisply starched shirts sat in a perfect row along the shelf, while a line of suits hung in gradation of color above a phalanx of perfectly polished wingtip shoes. As Scot marveled at the man’s penchant for organization, he noticed that something was slightly out of place.

All of the suits were enshrouded in clear plastic dry cleaner’s bags. One in particular, though, seemed to have been hastily hung. The bag was not covering the entire suit and it was bunched up where it had been slid between its two neighbors. Harvath noted that the suit was black and wondered if maybe Gary had thought about packing that one for the memorial service and at the last minute had changed his mind and shoved it back in his closet. Possible, but not likely. Not unless Gary was running behind and had been in a tremendous hurry. For all he knew, some careless FBI agent had pulled it out and shoved it back in place, but somehow he doubted it. They would have left things exactly as they had found them so on their return they could videotape everything the way Gary had left it.

Scot searched the bathroom. There was no deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush or razor evident, which made sense as Gary had been about to take a trip when this entire thing, whatever it was, went down. The toilet and sink were spotless, but the chrome wastebasket was filled with discarded tissues. Harvath pulled several of them out, only to discover that none had been used.
That was strange
. He kept digging only to find that the entire garbage can was filled with unused tissues.
What was Gary hiding?

After emptying the can of tissues, Harvath could clearly make out the remnants of a small fire. There was a trace amount of ash and some melted plastic around the seam in the bottom of the can. A quick check of the shower confirmed Harvath’s suspicions. The ceiling above had been slightly browned as if by smoke. Some ash was still visible around the drain. Apparently, Gary had burned something in the shower and had tried to rinse the can out afterwards. When he couldn’t get ride of all of the evidence, he decided to fill the can with tissues. But why? What did he need to hide so badly that he had to burn it? For the first time, Scot’s confidence in the man was shaken.

As Harvath continued to search the bathroom, he flipped open the lid of the laundry hamper and was stunned by what he discovered. Inside were three days’ worth of clean, warm weather clothes—most still perfectly folded. The forecast in Southern California had called for temperatures in the mid-eighties. It was as if Gary had just dumped the clothes right out of his suitcase instead of taking the time to put them away back in the bedroom. A poorly hung suit was something Harvath could chalk up to a thoughtless Bureau investigator or packing in a hurry, but now signs were starting to point more toward a hurried
unpacking
.

Even though Gary hadn’t bothered to call him, he might have phoned someone else. That someone might know what had happened to him. At the same time, Harvath knew that even while the Bureau waited for a FISA warrant, they would have already established a trap and trace on Gary’s phone and would have been going through all of his incoming and outgoing phone logs.

Harvath also knew that if the Bureau had been in the house, which was almost a slam dunk considering the well being of its former deputy director was currently in question, that they would have most likely relied solely on the phone company to provide them with Gary’s phone activity. That meant that the phones themselves might at least catch Harvath up on the most recent activity.

Leaving the master bedroom, Scot walked downstairs to the study where he picked up the phone and hit the
redial
button. There was a long pause and clicking noises before a series of ear splitting tones, which sounded like a fax machine at full volume, blasted on the other end.
Must have been a wrong number
, thought Harvath as he hung up. But why wouldn’t Gary have found the right number and tried again? None of this was making any sense.

Harvath hit
^*
69 to see who Lawlor’s last call had been from. The automated voice gave a Maryland area code followed by a seven-digit number, which Scot wrote with a pen onto the palm of his hand. At least it was something. Whether that something would actually be worthwhile was another question entirely, but he didn’t have any time to toss that possibility around now. If there was a trap and trace, the FBI would now know that someone was in the house and that the phone had been used. He had to get out.

As Harvath took one last look at the pictures on the walls of Gary’s study, he whispered into the darkness, “Where the hell are you?”