“…and the phone on the desk is her private line. It’s the most secure place my mother could have provided your friends if they needed to conduct this type of call,” said Nixie as she showed the men into the hidden room her mother used as a private office. “I know this is confidential, so I’ll wait for you downstairs in the reception area. Good luck.”
Harvath thanked Nixie as DeWolfe found the corresponding phone plugs in the small plastic case they had brought with them. DeWolfe attached the burst transmitter to the phone line first from the jack, and then ran another cord from the transmitter to the phone so that Harvath could either talk or burst without having to rearrange any of the equipment.
The transmitter connected, they sat down with a piece of paper and tried to figure out the encryption code Gary would have established with Frank Leighton, while Harvath continued to glance at his watch.
After seeing the stein in the Putzkammers’ livingroom, Scot had become convinced that the code somehow involved the serial numbers on the bottom of the team mugs.
“So what was Leighton’s number then?” asked DeWolfe.
“He was somewhere in the middle. Five or six, I think,” replied Harvath, trying to remember back to the stein he had seen in the laundry room that doubled for Leighton’s home office back in Maryland. “No, wait. It was seven.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” replied Harvath.
“That’s still only three digits-the seven and the twelve.”
“Not if you put a zero in front of it,” said Herman who was looking through some of the boxes of memorabilia that Gerda Putzkammer had stored in her office. “That would be the correct way to do it.”
“So it would read 07 of 12?” asked Harvath.
DeWolfe wrote it down and said, “That would work, but what about the rest of it?”
“I’ve been thinking about that too,” said Harvath. “Gary was a Patton fan. Actually he was more like a Patton freak.”
“As in General Patton?” asked DeWolfe.
“Yeah, he had studied the guy up and down. He knew all of his moves, and just like Gary, Patton didn’t care for the Soviets one single bit. In fact, at the end of World War II, Patton wanted permission to go after them. He said if the U.S. would give him ten days, he’d start a war with them that would make it look like their fault and the U.S. could be justified in pushing them all the way back to Moscow.”
DeWolfe, concerned with their dwindling timeframe, said, “So Gary liked Patton. Patton hated the Communists and wanted to get rid of them. Being army guys, Gary’s men probably also liked Patton. That is a legitimate connection. Now, what can we take numbers wise from him? It has to be something relatively easy to remember.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Harvath. “Patton commanded the Third Army in World War II, and they spent 281 days fighting in Europe.”
“Possible,” said DeWolfe with a certain degree of skepticism as he wrote it down.
“He invented the 1913 Patton sword.”
DeWolfe continued writing. “Okay.”
“Don’t forget the M-46 and M-47 Patton Tanks,” said Herman, picking up another catalog.
“I think we’re really reaching on these,” replied DeWolfe.
“I can also give you his birth date, death date, and the date he was buried.”
“That’s a bit better. All right, we’ll give these a try, but if we can’t crack it, you’ll have to wing it with Leighton. The mere fact that you located the proper emergency contact point should win you some credibility with him.”
Harvath nodded his head in response, but knew that if he couldn’t fulfill the full terms of the emergency contact plan, Leighton wasn’t going to listen to a thing he had to say.
DeWolfe powered up the burst transmitter and waited as it cycled through the welcome screen and then dropped him into the calendar program. “Okay. We’re in the calendar function. As I said before, the key here is to tap into the correct date. What do we want to try first?”
“Birth date,” said Harvath. “November 11th 1885.”
“The scheduler doesn’t go back that many years. Let’s just focus on the actual month and day,” replied DeWolfe as he found November 11th and went to the appointment scheduler.
“Anything?” replied Harvath.
“Nope. Just a regular page.”
“No prompts for a security code when you try to make an appointment?”
“No. Let’s try another date.”
They tried the date Patton died, the date of his burial and even the date of his car accident without any luck.
“How much time do we have left?” asked DeWolfe.
Harvath checked his tactical chronograph. “Less than fifteen minutes.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Try July 22nd.”
“What’s that correspond to?” asked DeWolfe as he scrolled to the date.
“Patton’s capture of Palermo.”
Harvath could tell by the look on DeWolfe’s face that the date wasn’t a winner. “Try August 16th. The capture of Messina.”
“Nothing,” said DeWolfe.
“Shit. May 8th. Victory Day in Europe.”
“Still nothing.”
“Well,” said Harvath, “does anyone have any other suggestions?”
Herman cleared his throat on the other side of the office and asked, “Did you ever see the moviePatton with George C. Scott?”
“Sure,” replied Harvath, glancing again at his watch, “I don’t know a single red-blooded American military person who hasn’t, but what does that have to do with what we’re trying-” Suddenly, he had an idea. Turning to DeWolfe, he said, “Try June 5th.”
“What’s June 5th?”
“The opening scene in the movie is the speech Patton gave the Third Army before the D-Day invasion. I should have thought of that earlier. It’s probably the greatest speech Patton ever gave.”
“You’re welcome,” said Herman who went back to reading his catalog.
“Bingo,” exclaimed DeWolfe. “The scheduler is asking us to enter a code. What now?”
“Let’s start running through some of the numbers we came up with. Try Leighton’s stein number and subtract the amount of days the third army was in Europe, plus today’s date.”
Harvath waited until DeWolfe looked up from the transmitter and said, “Negative.”
“Okay, Leighton’s number minus the 1913 sword classification, plus today’s date.”
Once again, DeWolfe responded, “Negative.”
“Patton’s sidearm was a.45-caliber Colt Peacemaker. How about substituting 45 for 1913?”
DeWolfe ran the equation, but still came up empty. “Zip,” he said.
“Damn it,” replied Harvath, his frustration mounting as the minutes ticked away. “I know Patton believed in reincarnation and really identified with Hannibal, the Carthaginian general. Hannibal began his march on Rome in 218. Try that.”
“Scot, you’re reaching way far here.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No, but-”
DeWolfe was interrupted by a snort from Herman.
“What’s so funny?” snapped Harvath. “You got a problem with Hannibal?”
“I wasn’t laughing about Hannibal,” replied Herman.
“What were you laughing at then?”
“Never mind.”
“No. What is it? I want to know.”
“In the beginning of The King George, Gerda Putzkammer apparently offered her customers printedmenus, just like in a restaurant. And no matter what it was, every price ended in sixty-ninepfennings. Very kitsch.”
Harvath was just about to tell Herman he wasn’t helping, when he got that ping in his head again and this time it shook something loose. “Take 68 and subtract Leighton’s 0712, plus today’s date,” he said to DeWolfe.
“But what’s 68?” asked the communications expert.
“Just do it.
Harvath was sitting literally on the edge of his seat until DeWolfe looked up with a smile and turning the transmitter toward him said, “We’re in.”
“We are?” said Herman, setting down his the materials he was looking at and walking over to the desk. “Where the hell did the number68 come from?”
“Don’t ask me,” said DeWolfe. “Ask Harvath. He finally figured out the code.”
With his eyes glued on the burst transmitter, Scot replied, “When we were driving back to the hospital, DeWolfe and I were talking about how burst codes needed to be easy to remember. That made me think about Patton and how he said that when he wanted his men to remember something and really make it stick, he used eloquent profanity. Sometimes, so did Gary. You just reminded me of an old joke of his that I hadn’t thought about in a long time.What’s a 68? It’s like a 69, except you do me and I owe you one.”
“Are you sure Gary wasn’t a SEAL?” laughed DeWolfe. “How much time do we have left?”
“Three minutes.”
“Then you’d better get cracking on your message. Take the stylus and tap the icon for the keyboard. When it comes up, type it out just like we talked about and put it into thewaiting to be sent folder. When it’s time to burst, you just tap the send icon. Okay?”
“Seems easy enough,” answered Harvath who wrote out the message as quickly and as succinctly as he could.
Less than three minutes later, Frau Putzkammer’s telephone rang. Herman and DeWolfe were completely silent as Harvath picked up the receiver and said, “This is Norseman.”
After a second of what could only have been shocked silence, Leighton said. “So you made it.”
“I told you I was for real.”
“That may be, but you’re not home free yet.”
“And neither are you. Are you ready to receive my transmission?” asked Harvath.
1200 kilometers away in the Gulf of Finland, Leighton checked his burst transmitter and said, “Go ahead.”
As the message appeared on his screen, Leighton was stunned by what he was reading:
Your mission has been compromised. Entire Dark Night team terminated. Gary Lawlor seriously wounded. Prognosis unclear.
Mission parameters now changed. We are coming to you. Will explain at your location. Hold position and exercise extreme caution. You are being watched.
The entire team has been terminated? They think I’m being watched?Though a million other questions were racing through Frank Leighton’s mind, he knew he would have to wait to get his answers and so typed a concise and professional reply:
Message received and understood. Will continue to hold position. What is your ETA?
Harvath read through Leighton’s response and typed:
Within next twenty-four hours. Keep all weapons on safe. We will be making covert insertion and don’t want any friendly fire. Leave package in place until our arrival. Be ready to move.
As Harvath was about to tap thesend icon with his stylus, the lights dimmed and then went out, plunging the room into complete darkness.
“What the hell is going on?” asked DeWolfe.
“Maybe too many vibrators recharging at the same time,” replied Herman.
“Very funny,” said Harvath, retrieving his SureFire flashlight. “Hey, DeWolfe? Does this burst transmitter have a backlight function so I can see it better?”
“It should. Go to the star logo in the upper left hand corner and click on it, then selectsettings and there should be abacklight function box. Selectyes and it should fire right up.”
Harvath followed DeWolfe’s instructions and the screen began to glow a deep red. It was an interesting color for a device masquerading as a civilian product, but made perfect sense for a piece of covert equipment that might be called upon to operate in difficult nighttime conditions where the least visible light spectrum would be required.
“Got it,” said Harvath, who, after tapping the screen several more times added, “Shit!”
“What’s going on?” asked DeWolfe.
“I’m getting a message that saysno carrier,” replied Harvath as he started saying into the phone’s mouthpiece, “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”
“No carrier?” continued DeWolfe. “That could only mean that-”
“The phone line’s dead,” said Herman as he withdrew his twin Beretta Stock 96’s from beneath his jacket.
“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed DeWolfe when he saw the weapons. “Who walks around with that kind of firepower?”
“Welcome to the Federal Republic of Germany,” answered Harvath, disconnecting the burst transmitter and illuminating his way around the desk with his flashlight to reconnect the phone directly to the wall jack. “If you think that’s impressive, you oughtta see what his cousins carry.”
“Forget about my cousins,” said Herman as Harvath picked up the receiver and listened for a dial tone. “What’s the situation with the phone?”
“Dead,” he replied. “So the problem appears to be on our end.”
“Coupled with a convenient loss of electricity. I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” said Harvath, removing the H amp;K from his BlackHawk tactical holster. “Either a car outside happened to ram the local power and telephone poles, or we’ve got a problem.”
“This part of Berlin doesn’t have power or telephone poles,” replied Herman. “Everything is underground.”
“Then we’ve got a problem,” said DeWolfe, the last to draw his own weapon, a “special order only” Beretta Model 93R.
“Talk about firepower,” quipped Harvath, eyeballing the extended twenty-round magazine of the handgun cum machine pistol, as DeWolfe flipped down the front grip and then switched the firing selector to three round bursts. “Where’d you get that thing?”
“I’ve got a good friend at Beretta and a healthy weapons allowance.”
“Like I said. When it comes to funding, you CIA guys aren’t hurting at all.”
Harvath tucked the burst transmitter into the back of his jeans and led the group out of the office. Cutting back through the living room of the penthouse, they found Nixie who showed them to another of the King George’s hidden features, a concealed stairwell. With the power out, the elevator was out of the question.
They were halfway to the ground floor when they heard the shots. Hurriedly, the group took the stairs as fast as they could. As they drew closer to the lobby and the shooting intensified, Harvath began to sense a whole new problem. Toffle, who had taken over the lead despite his bad leg, was picking up a good head of steam and dashed down the stairs two at a time. He seemed hell bent on charging through the lobby door, but something wasn’t right and Harvath yelled for him to stop.
Confused, Herman pulled up short and turned around to look at him as he came running down the last flight of stairs followed by DeWolfe and then Nixie. “Why are we stopping?” asked Toffle.
“Can’t you feel it?” replied Harvath.
“Feel what?”
“The air in here. It’s grown thinner.”
“And hotter,” said DeWolfe as he joined his colleagues at the bottom of the landing.
Herman scowled. “We’re wasting time.”
Nixie sniffed the air a moment and added, “And what’s that smell?”
The minute she pointed it out, Harvath knew what it was-accelerant. Pushing his way past Toffle, Harvath reached out his hand and gently placed it against the stairwell door.
Immediately, he snatched his hand back away from the heat and said, “There’s a fire on the other side of this door.”
“Oh my God,” replied Nixie. “We have to get everyone out.”
“First things first,” replied Herman, raising his weapons. “Kiefer and Verner may be in trouble.”
“We all might be in trouble. Let’s be smart about this,” responded Harvath, as he tugged the sleeve of his leather jacket over his hand so he could pull the door open. “Everybody back up. When I count to three, I’m going to slowly open the door. Ready?”
DeWolfe and Herman repositioned themselves so they could cover Harvath and then nodded their heads, while Nixie flattened herself as best she could against the near wall of the stairwell.
Harvath indicated his countdown with his fingers and then slowly cracked the door. Instantly, he was blown backwards as the roaring conflagration forced its way into the stairwell, desperate to feed on the fresh supply of oxygen.
Instinctively, DeWolfe and Toffle hit the deck, but Nixie stood in abject horror as she watched the roiling fireball come racing for her and engulf her in flames.
Harvath was the first to regain his feet and he ran to Nixie, covering her with his coat and knocking her to the ground. He rolled her from side to side, slapping at her body with his bare hands as he tried to put out the fire. Once he was convinced that he had it out, he began to remove the jacket and right away smelled the sickening scent of burnt hair and flesh coming from her body.
Her once stylish designer suit now hung in charred strips from her blistered torso. Her eyebrows were gone, as was much of her once beautiful mane of blond hair, but she was alive. Harvath did a quick assessment of her injuries and found her to be unresponsive. Most likely, she had gone into shock. “We need to get Nixie to a hospital, fast,” said Harvath, but neither DeWolfe nor Toffle was listening. They had exited the stairwell and leapt through the flames into the foyer of the King George.
Harvath yelled to them, but doubted he could be heard over the thunderous roar of the fire. Now that the door was open, his nostrils were filled with unmistakable tang of the accelerant that someone had used to deliberately set this fire. The sting of the noxious odor was so pungent it was like being slapped in the face. As the acrid smoke began to intensify, Harvath worried about how safe it was to be breathing such rapidly deteriorating air. He called out again and was answered to by two three-round bursts of semiautomatic weapons fire, which he assumed were from DeWolfe’s Beretta.
Making Nixie as comfortable as he could, he propped her against the railing and crept over toward the door where he aimed his H amp;K at the sea of blinding orange fire, just in time to see an enormous silhouette making its way toward him. Through the jagged blades of flame, he tried to make out who or what it was, but the scorching intensity of the fire made it impossible. As he stared into the inferno, Harvath’s brain tried to make out what he was seeing, but he couldn’t categorize it. The dimensions were all off. Reflexively, he raised his pistol, ready to fire.
Then, he heard a low, guttural roar and made a last minute decision to roll out of the way, just as Herman Toffle leapt through the wall of flames separating the foyer from the stairwell. He landed with an amazing crash, dropping the body of Kiefer, the security guard, whom he had fireman-carried all the way back through the blaze.
“Verner’s dead,” said Toffle, gasping for breath as he beat his hands around his body, making sure neither his hair nor his clothing were on fire.
“Where’s DeWolfe?” asked Harvath.
“He saw someone in the foyer and chased after him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”
“What about other people in the building?”
“From what I can see, the whole downstairs is on fire. There’s no getting out this way.”
“Why haven’t the sprinklers kicked in yet?”
“The building is pre-World War II. It probably doesn’t have them.”
“Okay, then,” said Harvath, thinking. “Then the only way we can go is up. Can you make it?”
Herman was coughing and obviously suffering the effects of smoke inhalation, but the resilient former terrorism expert flashed Harvath the thumbs up and tried to force a smile.
With Harvath helping Nixie and Herman carrying Kiefer, they struggled up the stairs to the next level, where the stairwell door was actually a false piece of richly engraved wood open to a long handsomely paneled hallway. Doors were spaced evenly along the corridor and it was readily apparent that this was where a good part of the King George’s business was conducted as customers and employees in various states of undress were running screaming up and down the hallway.
Getting his bearings, Harvath found the door to one of the bedrooms he assumed faced the front of the building and kicked it open. Three very attractive young women and one balding, overweight middle-aged man had shattered the window and were frantically trying to pry loose the decorative fleur-de-lis ironwork that stood between them and a one-story drop to freedom.
“Stand back,” ordered Harvath as he laid Nixie on the bed and took aim at the grating. He fired five shots in quick succession, sending sparks and chunks of masonry in all directions.
When Harvath lowered his pistol, the middle-aged client quickly moved back to the window and began shaking the ironwork for all he was worth. He was a man possessed, and when the grating failed to give way, he began crying, convinced he was going to die. Spent, the man fell to the floor and continued to sob.
“Passen Sie auf!” yelled Herman as he set Kiefer down on the floor and after picking up an antique bureau, ran at the ironwork-covered window with all his might.
There was the sound of splintering wood and groaning metal as the improvised battering ram struck its target head on and the fleur-de-lis grating tore from its moorings and fell with a crash onto the sidewalk below. Wheezing, Herman withdrew the dresser from the window and shoved it into the corner. Immediately, the sobbing man began scampering out the window.
“Hey,” yelled Harvath. “Get back here.”
Herman reached through the window, grabbed the man by his trousers and yanked him back in.
“Was?” implored the man.
“First of all, you’re welcome,” replied Harvath. “Secondly, do you speak English?”
“Yes, of course,” answered the man in a heavy German accent.
“Good. We’re going to need your help.”
“But this is the only way out. We already tried to go down the stairs. There is too much fire. Please, we must hurry.”
“We will hurry, but here’s what I want you to do. You and my friend,” said Scot as he nodded at Herman, “are going to gather up all of the mattresses you can from the rooms on this floor and throw them out the window so people have something to land on. Then I want you to let people in the hallway and the stairwells know they can get out this way. Tie the bedding together and use it to lower the injured.”
“What areyou going to do?” asked Herman.
“I’m going to find DeWolfe,”
“Be careful. All of this happening just after we arrived is a little too coincidental and I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither do I,” replied Harvath, who inserted a fresh magazine into his H amp;K as he turned and left the room. “Neither do I.”