“Scot, where are you?” asked Shaw.

“I don’t want to talk about where I am, Bill,” said Scot quietly, cautiously glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “What the hell happened?”

“Scot, I am sure there is an explanation for all of this. I promise we’ll listen to you. We just need to bring you in.”

“Me? Bring me in? What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.”

“Scot, I’m here with the director-”

“You are? Why is the director in your office?” asked Scot.

“He’s not. I’m in his. Your call was forwarded here. We had an appointment this morning. Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, I remember, but that’s not why I’m calling. I want to know what happened to Natalie and André Martin. You said they were safe.”

“Safe? What are you talking about?”

“Last night,” said Scot, “at your house, you said you would have them picked up and put into a safe house.”

“Scot, I’ll admit we did talk about many things when you showed up at my home in the middle of the night, but a safe house wasn’t one of them.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Scot, I have explained to the director how you appeared at my house ranting in the middle of the night. I attempted to calm you down. We talked about the president’s kidnapping, your feelings of guilt, your concern that you might be fingered as the inside leak… I gave you my word I would do everything to help you-”

“You lying son of a bitch!” said Scot, careful to keep his voice down, but making sure the force of the emotion came through nonetheless.

“Scot, this is Director Jameson. I am ordering you to tell us where you are so we can bring you in for debriefing.”

“Debriefing for what?” asked Scot.

“Twenty minutes ago a SIG-Sauer three-fifty-seven semiautomatic was found near the Sperando murder scene with a serial number that comes up positive as the sidearm issued to you. It is also covered with your fingerprints. If you are not responsible, we’ll give you ample opportunity to prove your innocence.”

“Prove my innocence? What about innocent until proven guilty? Sounds to me like you guys have already made up your minds on this one.”

“Scot, we want to help you,” said Shaw.

“You know what, Bill? I think you’ve helped me enough already. By the way, you don’t know anything about a little redecorating job that was done at my apartment last night, do you?”

“All I know is that when you didn’t answer your door this morning when our men came to pick you up, they were let in by your building manager and said the place was a complete and total mess.”

“But you had nothing to do with it, nor the fact that I got whacked in the back of the head and my gun was missing when I woke up, right?”

“What would I have to do with it? You’re talking crazy again, Scot.”

“I’m crazy? That would be a convenient excuse, wouldn’t it? I don’t suppose you gave the director the statement you had me write up at your place last night either, did you?”

“Statement?” asked Shaw. “I didn’t have you write up any statement. Scot, this is serious. I think your head injuries may have been graver than any of us originally thought. If you’ve injured your head again, we need to get you to a doctor.”

“I also suppose,” said Scot, ignoring Shaw’s expression of concern, “that the director knows nothing of Senator Snyder’s potential involvement in the kidnapping of the president.”

“He knows, all right. I told him about all of the people you thought were involved, right down to the White House gardener. Scot, last night you were throwing conspiracy theories around like they were going out of style. I think this has been too much for you. We need to get you some help.”

Scot was silent. Why was Shaw trying to railroad him? He was blatantly lying, but why? There could only be one answer. He was somehow involved.

“Scot, this is Director Jameson again. Listen, son. I want you to turn yourself in. Tell us where you are and we’ll come get you. I promise we’ll listen to everything you have to say. Just tell us where you are.”

“That’s a nice offer, Director, but I think I’m going to decline right now. As for Agent Shaw, I made Sam Harper a promise that I would get the people responsible for his death. You’re now on that list, Bill. Have a nice day.”

Harvath terminated the connection.

42

If a full dragnet was not already out, it would be very soon. Refusing a direct order from his superiors to come in and answer questions about a murder investigation involving his weapon should put him at the top of every law enforcement hot sheet in the D.C. area. Which meant he didn’t have much time.

As he was preparing to log off from his home computer, Harvath noticed the little flag that showed he had one message. Knowing he didn’t have time for this, he still let his curiosity get the better of him, and he clicked on the new mail icon.

Dear Sir:

Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding Nestlé S.A. chocolate products. We are sorry to inform you that our Lieber chocolate bar is not currently available in the United States. This candy is made exclusively for the Swiss market. We would like to point out that Nestlé has a fine line of chocolates which can be purchased in the United States and other countries abroad. For a full listing of our chocolates, or for any other Nestlé products, please visit our web site at…

Scot logged off of his home computer and signed off from the cyber café’s. He paid the earthy-crunchy chick at the coffee counter for his time on line and headed out the door.

On the pavement, he quickly scanned both directions for signs of anything that seemed out of place. Not noticing anything out of the ordinary, Scot walked down G Street to Twentieth, made a left, and headed north toward Dupont Circle. It had been less than ten hours since he had gotten out of a cab in almost the same neighborhood to meet with Natalie Sperando and André Martin. Now they were both dead and someone was trying to hang him for their murders. There could be only one reason: André had been one hundred percent on the money.

It began to rain again, and Scot popped into a small drugstore and bought an umbrella and an ugly tweed Totes hat. Using the weather to his advantage, he turned his collar up and pulled the hat down to conceal as much of his face as possible. After giving Natalie two hundred dollars last night, paying for his time and breakfast at the cyber café, the Metro pass, and now the hat and umbrella, Harvath was left with seven dollars.

He found an ATM across the street. He slid in his card and punched his code. He selected the withdraw-two-hundred-dollars option and waited. Instead of the thack, thack, thack sound of bills being metered out, he heard the printer printing a receipt; not a good sign. The screen flashed a benign message: Unable to complete transaction at this time. Please try again later.

Could they have frozen my account? Scot wondered. There’s no way they could have moved this fast. It had to be a coincidence. He put his ATM card back in his wallet and continued to head north toward Dupont Circle. When he reached M, he hailed a cab. He had the driver hang a left on Massachusetts Avenue and go through Embassy Row past the vice presidential mansion at the U.S. Naval Observatory. Convinced he wasn’t being followed, he then instructed the driver to change direction and come back along Florida Avenue to North Capitol Street and drop him at Union Station.

The fare was more than Harvath had in cash, but he had flagged a cab from a company he knew took plastic. He leaned forward through the partition to watch if his card would be accepted. It was. He had been overreacting about the cash machine. His accounts hadn’t been frozen. Not yet, at least.

Even though rush hour was over, Union Station was still crowded. Harvath kept his collar up and his hat pulled down close to his eyes. He tucked the umbrella under his arm and walked with his shoulders hunched up as if he was fighting off a chill from the cold air. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his trench coat. His right hand played with a key André Martin had slipped him as they shook hands good-bye last night at J.R.’s. “A copy of my insurance policy,” André had said. “I’ve always liked trains. How about you, Scot?” Those had been the last words André Martin would ever say to him.