“History or not, I’ll tell you what I know, but after that, you tell me where you are.”

“Deal.”

“We’re maxed out. The FBI, CIA, DOD…we’ve got every agent from every possible law enforcement agency working on this, and we still haven’t come up with anything. The kidnappers cut off the president’s finger and sent it to Vice President Marshfield with a ransom demand of fifty million dollars. We’re convinced they will kill the president if we don’t give in to their demands.”

“You’re sure the finger was his?”

“DNA and print positive.”

“That’s barbaric.”

“You’re telling me. It really shook Marshfield up.”

“How’s he handling this?”

“He’s hanging tough on the no-negotiation-with-terrorists policy. Other than that, he’s falling apart. He looks like shit and hasn’t slept or eaten in days. He doesn’t even consult with DaFina anymore. Every time someone comes to him for a decision on what the next move should be, he kicks them out and presumably hops on the horn to someone outside his office. There’s a rumor he’s in touch with a psychic.”

“I hate to say this, but I could have told you this would happen. The man has no balls.”

“Indeed. Now you know what I know. It’s your turn. Where are you?”

“Before we start, I want you to record this. I’ve got a lot to cover and I know there are people you will want to play this back for, so get the tape rolling.”

“I didn’t ask for your life story. I want to know where you are.”

“I’ll tell you, but I strongly advise that you do not trace this call.”

“Why not?”

“For one, I won’t be here after we hang up, and two, if you trace it, the information, as secure as you think your agency is, might fall into the wrong hands. Just trust me. It’ll all be clear after I’m finished.”

“All right, Scot. Go ahead. It’s your dime.”

“First of all. Give me your fax number. I’m going to be sending several things through, and I want to know they are going to a secure line.”

Lawlor gave Scot a number.

“And you’re in your office right now, alone?”

“Yes. What is this all about?”

“I think I know who actually kidnapped the president and where he is being held.”

“You what?” Lawlor couldn’t believe his ears. “Where the hell are you? What evidence do you have?”

Scot filled Lawlor in on the entire story, starting with how he thought the kidnapping happened, all the way to his swim down the Reuss a couple of hours ago.

“I’m faxing the contents of the envelope that was in André Martin’s locker at Union Station. If you send a man to my apartment, you’ll find the piece of chocolate I recovered from the Utah farmhouse buried in the planter box outside my bedroom window. I’m also faxing the shipping invoice for Gerhard Miner’s wine. I think when we find out who paid for it, we’ll have the connection between Miner and Senator Snyder. Can you put one of your people in South Africa on it right away?”

“Of course. I just hope it shakes out in time.”

“Then wish me luck.”

“Luck? What the hell are you talking about?”

“My job was to protect the president, and I didn’t do that properly, so now my job is to get him back.”

“Scot, if you’re right, you could only make things worse by storming that mountain alone.”

“First, I won’t be alone. Second, I’m tired of being on the defensive and getting shot at every twelve hours. And third, if the kidnappers intend to make good on their threat, the president doesn’t have a whole lot of time left.”

“Scot, just take a second and think about the situation. If they kill him, they’ll never get the money. They’re not going to strangle the golden goose.”

“You don’t know that for sure. Who knows what they’ll do next. The longer we sit around on our asses, the worse his odds are.”

“You can’t just John Wayne your way through this. Give me time to look into what you’ve told me.”

“So you think I’m right about all of this?”

“If what you’ve uncovered is true, you’ve made a hell of a lot more progress than all of our agencies combined. But we’re talking if.”

“Well, if you add up all the bullets that have been fired at me since Wednesday, I’d say this whole thing is as far away from an if as you can get.”

“I agree, but this is a hostage situation.”

“And the clock is ticking. Listen, Gary, no matter what you say, the president was snatched on my watch and a lot of men died. I was responsible for them, and I let them all down. The only way I can make it right is to see to it that the president is returned safely and that the people behind his kidnapping pay. I won’t allow my men to have died in vain. Keep playing defense if you want, but the smart money’s on the offense.”

With that, Harvath hung up the phone.

72

It took Claudia twenty minutes to run her errands and gather most of the equipment she and Scot would need. As she crept through the back door of her apartment building, his words still echoed in her mind. The fact that her apartment would be watched was a given. There was probably a person or persons watching her office as well.

As she crept quietly up the stairs, she wished she hadn’t talked Scot out of coming with her. It was a silly thought and she knew it, but she felt safe around him. When she got to the top landing, she turned and walked toward apartment 5B. As her left hand trailed along the iron railing, her right gripped the butt of her SIG-Sauer. She was grateful that Scot had given her his remaining three nine-millimeter rounds.

At the door, she examined the locks closely for any signs that they had been tampered with. There were none. She pulled her keys from her pocket, selected the correct one, and gently slid it into the lock. Quietly, she turned back the upper lock and then repeated the process on the lower. The door slid noiselessly open on its hinges. Claudia pushed it the rest of the way, to make sure no one was standing behind it. Scot had warned her not to turn on the lights, because it might alert anyone watching the front of the building that she had returned home. She took a moment to let her eyes get accustomed to the darkness that was growing outside her windows and filling the apartment.

Her weight distributed evenly between both legs and her feet in a wide stance, Claudia reached out with her left hand for the brass doorknob of the hall closet. She twisted, but it wouldn’t budge. Piece of junk, she thought to herself. You always needed to put your weight against the door and lift up on the knob to get it open. Claudia didn’t like having to get that close, but she had no choice. She took a deep breath and in one quick movement leaned against the door, twisted the handle, and popped it open.

She immediately jumped back, not quite sure of what she expected to come flying out at her. Nothing did. She saw two of the items she was looking for and, without setting down her pistol, removed them from the closet and placed them on the entryway floor.

Her heart was beating as she prepared to close the door, afraid someone would be standing on the other side when she swung it shut. She knew she was being too cautious, but somehow that didn’t seem like a bad thing. Moving backward toward the front door, she raised her pistol to chest level and nudged the closet door closed with her foot. There was nothing behind it except her living room.

Claudia quickly swept the living room and the kitchen. Both were empty. It was the same in the bathroom and the linen closet. She gathered some extra medical supplies so she could change Scot’s dressing and, entering the bedroom, tossed them on the bed. She walked along its edge, toward her closet, and let out a scream as a hand reached out for her ankle.

Like an arrow being released from a bow, Claudia sprang away from the bed and the hand beneath it. Her back slammed into the wall, and she pointed her pistol at the figure that any second would emerge from underneath the bed and come for her. She waited, but whatever was under her bed refused to come out. She peered down the barrel of her SIG, the iridescent night sights illuminating the direction the bullet would take when she pulled the trigger.