State of the Union (7 page)

I
’m going to ask you again,” said the man Harvath had struggled with inside Frank Leighton’s house. “Who are you and what were you doing there?”

“Actually, I work for Martha Stewart, but times have been tough, so I pick up the occasional decorating job on the side,” replied Harvath as he glanced around the rural farmhouse where his captors had taken him. He had absolutely no idea where he was. All he knew was that after three hours in the trunk of a car with a hood over his head, he was happy to finally be sitting in an upright position.

“Very funny, wiseass. I suppose all of these are just tools of the trade?” said the man as he did a quick inventory of the gear which had been spread across the large kitchen table. “Looks like you were planning on doing one hell of a redecorating job on somebody—SIG Sauer semiautomatic in forty caliber with a fully loaded clip and two spares. Modified Beretta Neos, complete with silencer. IR camouflage suit. Night vision goggles. Lock pick gun…I’m not screwing around with you anymore. I want some answers.”

“Okay,” said Harvath, “you got me. I don’t work for Martha Stewart.”

“No shit.”

“Actually, I work for
Ladies’ Home Journal
, and I’m doing an investigative piece on how to make your neighborhood a safer place to live. I’m hoping it’ll be a three-parter with photographs and the whole she-bang. You’d be great for it. Could I get you to agree to sit for an interview?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Now you’re sending mixed messages. You want me to talk, but you’re also telling me to shut up.
Ladies’ Home Journal
did a great article on this very same thing. It’s an age-old problem. Now, what I suggest—”

“That’s it, asshole,” said the man as he tipped the chair Harvath was handcuffed to over backwards. It landed with a loud crack and Harvath’s head thudded against the tiled floor. “From this point on, things only get worse for you. Do you understand me? I have no time and even less patience. You’re going to start answering my questions, or I swear to God I
will
kill you. Something tells me your government probably wouldn’t raise much trouble over losing you.”

“My government?” snapped Harvath as he tried to shake the stars from his head and focus on the man towering above him.
Who the hell was this guy? And who was he working for?
He certainly wasn’t with the FBI. If he was, Harvath would have been dragged down to the Washington Field office or FBI headquarters and all of this would have been cleared up by now. Whoever this guy was, he was operating way out on the edge. There was no way they could be working for the same team. That left Harvath with only one possible conclusion—somehow, the Russians were on the same trail he was. “If you know anything about my government,” Scot continued, “then you know I won’t be forgotten that easily.”

“Losing you will be painful for them,” said the man, “but I’m sure you’re not irreplaceable.”

Harvath could tell the man was trying to lead the interrogation somewhere and he decided to follow, at least for the time being to see where it was going. He had to figure out what was going on and who he was dealing with. Somehow, this man seemed to know who he was, or at least that he worked for the United States government. “No one wants to believe they are replaceable,” said Harvath, “but it is a fact of life. That being the case, there are plenty more out there who will eagerly take my place.”

“And that is precisely what we want to know,” said the man. “How many are there? Who are they? Where are they? How do we contact them? We want all of it. If you cooperate, maybe we can work something out.”

Harvath’s head hurt and lying flat on his back with his hands cuffed to the sides of a kitchen chair was not helping his thought process any. “You want to know who and how many would replace me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“There’s thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands even. All it takes is time and the right amount of training.”

“That’s the problem with you and your countrymen,” said the man. “You believe all of your own propaganda.”

“It’s not propaganda, my friend. We have the best trained people in the world,” responded Harvath.

“Is that how you found Frank Leighton?”

“Who says I found him?”

“You found his house.”

“I told you—”

“
Ladies’ Home Journal
, I know,” replied the man who, standing to Harvath’s left, kicked him hard in the ribs. “And I told you to stop fucking around.”

Harvath struggled for several moments to regain his breath before responding. “Actually, you told me to shut the fuck up.”

The man kicked Harvath again.

“We know your people were aware that Frank Leighton was one of ours.”

Jesus
, thought Harvath through the pain,
who the hell is this guy?

“We know you were there to terminate him. Who did the others? Was it you?”

“What others?” coughed Harvath, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So it wasn’t you who killed our other operatives? Bullshit,” said the man as a he delivered a third and even more severe kick to Harvath’s side.

It took several moments for Harvath to get his breath back and while he gasped for air the man continued, “So, it’s our mistake? This is just a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I think we both have to agree that judging from the array of goodies on the table over there, you were not simply skipping through the woods to Grandmother’s house to deliver a basket full of pies. Remember what I said about things getting worse? My boot to your ribs is going to pale in comparison to what I have planned for you. I hope you haven’t grown too attached to your testicles, because I’m going to hang them from my rearview mirror next.”

Harvath’s cold stare spoke volumes.

“You think I’m kidding? Take a look at these,” said the man as he held a rusty pair of pruning shears above Harvath’s face and worked the dirty blades back and forth. “I think they’ll do the trick just fine. We’ll go slow so you can appreciate the entire show. I hear in parts of the world eunuchs are still hired to watch over harems. What a shitty job that would be, huh? Water, water everywhere and no mouth to drink it with. It’s up to you. Tell us what we need to know and once we have it confirmed, we’ll talk about making a deal. We’re holding all the cards.”

“Oh, yeah? Well you can shove the whole deck right up your ass.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” said the man, with a twisted smile, as he righted Harvath’s chair and affected a perfunctory cleaning of the shears by wiping them on the sleeve of his shirt.

He had just begun cutting up Harvath’s left trouser leg, when another man walked into the kitchen and said, “Hold up on the prisoner.”

“And the good cop appears just in time,” quipped Harvath.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” said the man as he stopped clipping halfway up Harvath’s lower leg.

“There you go again.
Let’s talk, no, shut up. Let’s talk, no, shut up
. If you’ll let me call my editor, I’m sure she’d be happy to fax over a copy of that whole communications skills article.”

“You’re trying my patience,” said the man as he turned, “Why are we stopping?”

“Orders.”

“We don’t have time for this. Orders from whom?”

“Goaltender.”

“What does Goaltender care about this piece of shit?”

“A black Chevy TrailBlazer was found abandoned not far from Leighton’s house.”

“So?”

“They ran the plates. We’re supposed to uncuff the prisoner and make him comfortable until Goaltender gets here.”

“Goaltender is coming here? You’ve got to be kidding me. What for?”

“Apparently he wants to talk to the prisoner himself.”

“But that car could have easily been stolen. How do we know this is the guy it’s really registered to?”

“I described the prisoner to him myself and we also got a DMV photo match. Goaltender says to take the cuffs off, but not to let him out of your sight until he gets here.”

As his colleague left the kitchen, the man removed a key and unlocked Harvath’s cuffs. “It looks like I’m done asking the questions for the time being.”

“Then I’ve got more than a few of my own,” replied Harvath. “Why don’t we start out by you telling me who the hell you are and who you work for?”

“I’d take it easy if I were you,” said the man as he finished uncuffing Harvath. “Goaltender will be here soon enough and believe me, when he asks you a question, you’d better answer it.”

“Who the hell is this Goaltender? What is he some kind of a hockey buff?”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll recognize him the minute you see him. And keep in mind,” said the man, “that while he’s talking to you, I’m going to be on the other side of the room sharpening my pruning shears. All it will take is one nod from him and I’m going to finish what I started.”

“What’s to stop me from taking out your precious Goaltender? It seems to me it would have been smarter to leave my handcuffs on.”

The man smiled and said, “Part of me would like to see you try, but then again there’s part of me that wants at least a little piece of you left for myself. You’d never make it. They’d tear you to shreds. Goaltender has the best bodyguards in the world.”

Harvath had to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” said the man.

“That’s one area that I can guarantee my people do better than anyone else.”

“We’ll see,” said the man.

“You bet we will,” replied Harvath.

A
fter removing his handcuffs, Harvath’s interrogators gathered all of the equipment from the long table and left him alone in the kitchen. It only took a few minutes to confirm his suspicions that though nobody was in the room, he was still being watched. The entire kitchen was covered by several strategically placed miniature cameras. A further visual exploration of the room revealed sophisticated intrusion detection systems and a discretely mounted air quality monitor, the kind used to check for airborne particles a lot more dangerous than pollen and ragweed. Whoever owned this place had certainly put a lot of money into it and took its security very seriously.

Harvath found a clean mug and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot brewing next to the stove. Peering out of the window above the sink, he learned several things. The first was that the window was made from thick synthetic glass, most likely bulletproof. The next was more of a confirmation of an earlier gut feeling—he was indeed in the middle of nowhere.

Finally, after much persistent squinting against the light from behind him in the kitchen he was able to discern several men in winter camouflage on patrol outside. Whoever this Goaltender was, he took his security seriously and money seemed to be no object. Though it was good, there was still no way it could be anywhere near as thorough as what the United States Secret Service provided the president.

That thought was still swirling around Harvath’s head along with what possible clandestine purpose the fortified farmhouse could possibly serve and what these people wanted with him, when he heard the telltale sounds of an approaching helicopter. It came in quickly and landed even faster. Whoever the pilots were, they were very good. Harvath had no idea the helicopter was even there until seconds before it landed.

Through the swirl of snow kicked up by the unmarked, blacked-out craft, Harvath could see a group of people hop out and quickly make their way toward the house. As soon as the party cleared the rotors, the helicopter lifted off and disappeared. It was done with military precision and Harvath had to admit he was more than a little impressed.

He assumed that the mysterious Goaltender was a member of the party who had just been dropped off outside and he readied himself for the encounter.

Two of the men who had taken him prisoner at Frank Leighton’s house entered the kitchen and instructed Harvath to set his coffee cup down. They quickly searched him to make sure he hadn’t secreted anything outside the view of the cameras that could be used as a weapon and then pointed him to a lone chair on the far wall of the kitchen. These people were obviously extremely careful and took nothing for granted. Harvath had to hand it to them. It was exactly the way he would have done things.

He took his seat as instructed and waited. From beyond the kitchen, there was a chorus of indistinguishable voices as the party from the helicopter entered the house. Several minutes passed and then the voices grew louder as the party approached the kitchen. When the first member of Goaltender’s security detail entered, Harvath’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

“Palmer?” he said, the confusion clearly resonating in his voice.

“Harvath?” replied Secret Service agent, Kate Palmer. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently, the local 4H club has an interesting way of soliciting new members,” said Harvath as he began to stand up.

“Don’t stand, Scot. I need you to remain seated until I say otherwise,” replied Palmer as three other agents entered behind her and swept the kitchen.

Harvath recognized two of the other three Secret Service agents as former colleagues of his from the president’s protective detail. Though he nodded to them, they ignored him until they had determined that the room was completely secure.

“What the hell is going on here?” asked Harvath.

Kate Palmer spoke to the agents, who then left the room, before turning her attention back to Harvath. “We’ve got a very big problem that I am not at liberty to go into. You’re free to stand up now if you want.”

“Thanks,” said Harvath as he rose from his chair. “What do you mean, you can’t go into it?”

“I’m not authorized to discuss it.”

“Well who is?”

“I am,” said a voice from the entryway to the kitchen, which Harvath immediately recognized.

“Mr. President,” he replied even before he had fully turned around.

Kate Palmer spoke into her sleeve microphone, “Goaltender will be ready to travel shortly. All teams be prepared to move.”

Harvath looked back at Agent Palmer and then turned to the president and said, “You’re Goaltender? Your call sign has always been Hat Trick. Why the change? What’s going on here?”

“You and I have a lot to talk about, Scot,” responded President Rutledge. “Agent Palmer, if you would be kind enough to show the defense secretary in and give us the room, please.”

“Right away, Mr. President,” said Agent Palmer as she exited the kitchen.

Once Defense Secretary Robert Hilliman had entered the room and the rest of the Secret Service agents had left, the president said, “Scot, I’d like you to meet Secretary Hilliman.”

“Mr. Secretary,” replied Harvath as he shook hands with the man.

“I have heard a lot about you, Agent Harvath. I’m sorry that we should have to meet under these circumstances.”

“I’m the one that’s sorry, Mr. Secretary,” replied Harvath. “I have no idea what this is all about.”

“That’s why we’re here,” said the president, as he motioned the two men toward the long kitchen table. “We don’t have much time, so let’s get started.”

When the trio was seated at the table, the president said, “Scot, I need to know what you were doing at Frank Leighton’s house.”

Harvath shot an uneasy glance at the defense secretary.

“Don’t worry about Bob. He’s one of the few people in Washington I know I can trust. That’s why I appointed him,” said the president.

“No offense, Mr. Secretary,” responded Harvath. “It’s just that someone very close to me has disappeared under some very strange circumstances.”

“No offense taken, Agent Harvath. I assume we’re talking about Gary Lawlor?” asked the secretary.

“Yes.”

“How were you able to connect him with Frank Leighton?” asked the president.

“When I was in Gary’s house earlier tonight—”

“Wait a second,” interrupted Hilliman. “That was you? You were the one who got inside and used his phone?”

“Yeah. I needed to find out what happened to him,” answered Harvath.

“And what did you find?”

“Probably not much more than you already know. He had apparently gotten off his flight to San Diego, come home, repacked for another destination and hastily burned something in a trashcan in his bathroom.

“He had erased his caller ID log, so I picked up his phone and punched star sixty-nine to see who his last call had been from. That’s how I got Frank Leighton’s number. I traced it and then got the address in Easton.”

“I’m not going to ask,” said Hilliman, “how you got into Agent Lawlor’s house. You must have gotten into Leighton’s house the same way. I saw the impressive array of gadgetry that my people picked you up with.”

“
Your
people?” said Harvath. “Those guys work for the Department of Defense? What does the DOD have to do with Gary’s disappearance?”

“In a moment. Do you know where the term
Cold War
comes from, Agent Harvath?”

“If I remember correctly, there was an American journalist named Lippman who wrote a book in the late forties called,
Cold War
. The title was meant to reflect the relations between the USSR and its World War II allies—the United States, Britain, and France—which had deteriorated to the point of war without actual military engagement.

“Foreign policy on both sides seemed singularly focused on winning the Cold War. After we created NATO, the Soviets created the Warsaw Pact. There didn’t seem to be a local conflict anywhere in the world where the U.S. didn’t choose one side and the Soviets another. This maneuvering eventually gave way to the arms race, where both sides competed to have the most advanced military weapons possible.”

“And what brought about the end of the Cold War?”

“That was actually a year before I was graduating and it was all we talked about,” replied Harvath. “There were a lot of theories floating around, but the one that made the most sense to me was that we simply outspent the Soviets. That’s how we won the Cold War.”

“Are you aware, Agent Harvath, of how that affected defense planning by the United States?” asked the secretary.

“Sure,” answered Harvath. “The Berlin Wall came down in November of 1989. Germany then united less than a year later and joined NATO. The Warsaw Pact disbanded and we signed a conventional arms control treaty that provided for major cuts in both American and Soviet forces. Basically, all of the intense debating over nuclear policy came to a sudden and screeching halt.

“Our greatest enemy was defeated, so we began slashing our military spending starting with our presence on the European continent and then what we had invested here at home. The once formidable Red Army was suffering from not only a lack of supplies, but also from a lack of morale. If they couldn’t even put down revolts in their own country, how could we expect them to pose any threat to us? They were finished.”

“Or so we thought,” replied the defense secretary.

“What are you talking about?” asked Harvath.

“What if the Cold War hadn’t ended?” said the president.

“Are we talking about a hypothetical here? Like what if there had been a different outcome?” asked Harvath.

“No,” replied President Rutledge. “What if the Cold War didn’t end? What if we thought it had ended, but the Soviets were just playing possum?”

“That would be the greatest Trojan horse in history. But it would be virtually impossible. I mean, look at the condition their country has been in since the end of the Cold War—life expectancy falling, rampant corruption, fifty percent annual inflation. A lot of people could argue that it is worse now than it has ever been.”

“And many opinion polls out of Russia would agree with you,” offered the defense secretary. “An overwhelming percentage of middle-aged and older Russians believe that their lives were significantly better under Communism.”

“But why are we even talking about this?” asked Harvath.

“Agent Harvath, do you have any idea how much the international community, both private and public, has funneled, into Russia since the early nineties?”

“I don’t have an exact figure, but it has to be in the billions of dollars.”

“Try tens of billions. Of which, several billion have gone astray.”

“I’ve read about that,” said Harvath. “The Russian mafia has slithered its tentacles very thoroughly into the Russian banking system, right?”

“You’re half right. As far as we’re concerned, there is no Russian mafia.”

“No Russian mafia? What are you talking about?”

“After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the KGB underwent several face-lifts. When it emerged, it had a new name, had placed one of its own colonels in the president’s seat in the Kremlin, and was making megabucks by taking even greater control of its country’s illegal activities,” said the secretary.

“Are you telling me the Russian mob is actually run by the Russian Federal Security Bureau, formerly known as the KGB?”

“You catch on quick, kid,” said Defense Secretary Hilliman.

Harvath ignored the remark and studied the graying, sixty-some-thing Defense secretary with his neatly pressed Brooks Brothers suit, wire rim glasses, and blue silk tie. “I guess not,” said Harvath. “With all due respect, does this have something to do with Gary and the deaths of the Army Intelligence operatives from Berlin? Because this isn’t making any sense.”

“That’s enough of the questions, Bob,” interjected the president. “Let’s focus on the answers.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” responded Hilliman, as he placed his briefcase on the table and extracted a large manila envelope. He fished out an eight-by-ten color photograph, handed it across the table to Harvath, and said, “Three days ago, security staff at the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota, received a tip and discovered a Russian suitcase nuke hidden within the NASCAR Silicon Motor Speedway exhibit.”

Harvath was at a loss for words. “I can’t believe this. The
Russians
? That’s insane. Why would they do something like that? Are you positive the device was one of theirs?”

“There’s no question. Both the Cyrillic markings and laboratory tests on the fissile material have come up positive for Russia.”

“How could they have gotten a suitcase nuke into the United States?

“During the Cold War, our borders were a lot more porous than they are now,” said the Secretary.

“You think that’s when this thing came in?”

“According to interviews we’ve conducted with Russian defectors over the years, the Soviets were actively trying to smuggle these things in. We even had a former Russian nuclear scientist testify before Congress about it.”

“So why haven’t we conducted an all-out search for them?”

“We did. In fact we conducted several searches and spent a lot of money but always came up empty. Either the stories were bogus or the devices were too well hidden.”

“Wait a second,” said Harvath. “Even if the Soviets had been able to pull it off, we’re talking at least twenty years ago.”

“At least.”

“Then in this case, time to a certain degree is on our side. Russian suitcase nukes, just like our backpack nukes, needed to be refreshed at least every seven years to assure maximum potency.”

“Unfortunately,” responded the defense secretary, “your information is incorrect. Both the United States and the Russians had been experimenting with a hybrid fissile material with a seriously expanded potency and shelf life.”

“How potent?” asked Harvath, studying the photograph of the device.

“Somewhere between forty-five and fifty kilotons. And although we live in a megaton world today, I don’t have to remind you that the device the U.S. dropped on Hiroshima nicknamed “Little Boy” was only a twelve point five kiloton device and “Fat Boy” dropped on Nagasaki was just twenty-two.