Scot had finally settled on a Glock 17. It was an almost perfect copy of the exact weapon, minus the silencer, he had used to save his life just the day before. He hoped he wouldn’t need to count on a toy gun to save his life in the future, no matter how realistic it looked, but until he could get his hands on a real one, this would have to do.

Sliding the cover off the box now, he removed the gun from the inner Styrofoam box. It had cost him about sixty dollars U.S., but at least now maybe he wouldn’t feel so vulnerable. In a pinch, bluffing with the fake Glock would be better than having nothing at all, but the sooner he got ahold of a real weapon, the better. Rolf undoubtedly had one of the government-issued assault rifles somewhere in their house, but the Swiss didn’t issue their civilian army ammunition with their rifles. That was okay; Scot didn’t want to put Jackie any further out than he already had. Besides, how the hell would he conceal an assault rifle?

He continued to plug the little white balls into the magazine. To his surprise, they helped bring the weight of the pistol closer to what it would be in real life and didn’t make any rattling noise when he twisted the gun from side to side. The best part was that it would fit neatly in his waistband without being seen. Scot set it aside and reached for the pad and pencil Jackie had left on the table with the food.

He tore off the top piece of paper with her handwriting and set the pad on the bed next to him. Fishing the manila envelope from André Martin’s locker at Union Station out of his pocket, he began flipping through the papers until he found what he was looking for, the note to Aunt Jane and the address in Interlaken.

Trying to copy the senator’s handwriting wouldn’t be necessary. He wanted whoever read his letter to know there was a new player in the game. Putting the pencil against the pad to begin his own little note to Auntie Jane, Harvath noticed that he could see an impression of the note Jackie had written on the page before it. The realization came to him in a flash, and he felt stupid for not seeing it before. His brain really had been scrambled. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book.

The reason the note to Aunt Jane, which Scot had decided beyond a shadow of a doubt came from the senator, looked like a negative on the photocopied page was because that’s essentially what it was. He had to hand it to André Martin; he’d been extremely thorough. Finding the senator’s pad, André had lightly sketched with a pencil across the top page to see what had been written on the page before it. Most people wrote hard enough that their writing could be read several pages deep in a pad. Martin had known this trick and had been able to salvage the letter. It was all beginning to make sense. There was no way the senator would have engaged in his shadowy business at his office; there were too many opportunities to be found out. Instead, he worked from home, confident in his security. Based on the evidence in front of him, Harvath decided the senator was either very careless or André Martin was very clever. It was probably a combination of the two.

Scot stuck as close as he could to the language of the note contained in the manila envelope. The key was for the reader to know someone was on to him:

Dear Aunt Jane,

You have been a very bad girl. You have taken something that doesn’t belong to you and many people want it back. I have no disagreement with you, but believe my silence is worth something. Why don’t we meet to discuss it? I will be at the Top of Europe’s Ice Palace at noon the day after you receive this.

I look forward to a mutually profitable chat.

Yours,

A friend of Edwin’s

Scot read the letter several times before sealing it in the envelope he had bought. After addressing it with the Interlaken post office box, he stamped it and left for the post office.

Walking down the Centralstrasse, Harvath roamed the neighborhood, and pretended to window-shop until five minutes before the post office closed. Then, he slipped his letter into the outdoor slot, satisfied that the letter would not make it into the post office box until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

He walked back to Balmer’s and ran his plan through his mind yet again. It was a long shot, and he knew it, but at this point, it was the only shot he had.

50

Star Gazer hurriedly grabbed the wastebasket beneath his desk and vomited. Lying on a crumpled piece of wax paper on his desk was a man’s severed finger. He knew whom it belonged to and who had sent it.

I can’t believe they managed to get this into my office, he worriedly thought to himself. First, all of those Secret Service agents get killed, then the Special Ops team, and now this. This is getting way out of hand. It has to end.

Two hours later, Star Gazer sat in his study facing Senators Rolander and Snyder. Once the doors had been closed by Star Gazer’s bodyguards and it was safe to talk, Rolander began, “I don’t think calling this meeting was such a good idea.”

“Oh, you don’t?” replied Star Gazer, anger notching his voice up as he spoke. “Well, guess what? I am done listening to you! This is all totally out of control!”

“Keep your voice down!” snapped Snyder. “Now, just tell us what’s got you so worked up.”

“What’s got me so worked up? I received a note today along with the president’s finger!” he said, ignoring Snyder’s request that he lower his voice.

Rolander was speechless.

“I am not going to tell you again. Calm down. What did the note say?”

“The kidnappers want fifty million dollars deposited to an account in Buenos Aries, or the next package I receive will contain President Rutledge’s head.”

“Our friends are getting a little greedy,” said Snyder.

“They can’t do this,” said Rolander.

“They are doing it,” replied Snyder, who turned back to Vice President Marshfield. “Are you sure it was Rutledge’s finger?”

“Positive. It had a funny half-moon-shaped scar at the knuckle which he always bragged about getting in a sailing accident.”

“What did you do with the finger?”

“What did I do with it? What do you think I did with it? I gave it to the Secret Service.”

“Jesus. What about the note? You didn’t show anyone the goddamn note, did you?”

“The note? Of course I did. You expect me to keep this to myself? This is all so insane. You have to stop this!” cried Star Gazer, the hysteria creeping back into his voice. “I never agreed to all of this killing, and what’s more, our deal was that the president be returned safely to his office.”

Marshfield was stepping on Snyder’s last nerve. “Don’t tell me what our deal was. I put it together, remember? You get your big fat war chest filled with untraceable campaign contributions and a chance to prove that you’re made of the right stuff to be president. You stand tough and don’t negotiate with terrorists and come out smelling like a rose. We know Rutledge doesn’t plan on running for a second term, so you sail right into the number one position in the world. We handed you exactly what you wanted, so don’t start telling me what our deal was.”

“I damn well will tell you, because your whole operation is falling apart!” shot Marshfield.

“The only thing falling apart here, Mr. Vice President, is you.”

“Me? You don’t even have enough fingers and toes to count all the dead bodies on. And from what I hear, you let that Secret Service agent, Harvath, slip right through your grasp!”

“I’m not going to tell you again. You do your job and we’ll do ours. All you have to do is to talk tough to the cameras and make sure the president’s coalition for that fossil fuel reduction bill completely collapses. We want every yes vote so solidly no that even if he walked back onto the floor tomorrow morning, there’d be no resurrecting it. Do you understand me? The rest you leave to us. And for God’s sake, man, pull yourself together. You certainly don’t look like presidential material to me.”