As Scot moved down the last flight of stairs and pushed open the door to the basement, he realized that a little-known feature of his building was about to pay off big time. He was glad he had done his homework.
The old apartment building Harvath lived in, as well as all of the other buildings along his block, had been owned and built by the same wealthy Virginia family. The wife had been quite the eccentric and hadn’t wanted to deal with coal-truck deliveries disrupting her rather erratic sleeping patterns, so the husband had connected all of the basements by a series of passageways. The coal was delivered via the main building’s chute at the north end of the block, and servants then transported it through the passageways to the boiler rooms of the other buildings.
While this system was no longer in use, the doors connecting one basement to another were still there, and Scot had long since made copies of the keys that fit the locks, just in case. It all went back to his SEAL training: a SEAL always has at least two routes of escape, because a SEAL is always prepared. Pulling his key ring from his pocket, he quickly opened the first door and then locked it behind him. Even though he thought that the basement lights were probably still functional, Harvath chose not to risk using them and drew the small Mag-Lite from his trench-coat pocket and used it to light his path.
He quickly made his way to the northernmost building, exited through the alley, and two blocks later hailed a cab. He had the driver drop him on Russell Road, just before King Street. From there, Harvath made his way to the King Street Metro stop, just next to Alexandria’s Union Station.
There were still plenty of morning commuters about, and Harvath blended in with them perfectly, just another businessman on his way to work in D.C. The question was, where was he going? At the King Street Metro stop you could take either the blue line or the yellow line. Which one?
He decided against using his Metro Fast Pass. While he doubted it could be used to trace his movements within the Metro, he didn’t trust it. Walking over to one of the automatic machines, he inserted five dollars and seconds later pulled out a One Day Pass.
After retrieving his pass and moving through the turnstile, Harvath headed for the blue line bound for Addison Road. Having ridden the underground systems in both Chicago and New York, Washington’s clean, carpeted Metro system always amazed him. People never even ate on the trains, lest they get chewed out by a Metro worker or, worse still, a fellow passenger. The people who used the Metro took it very seriously, and within one visit, even tourists figured out that while you’re standing on the escalator, you always stand to your right or you risk being trampled by frenzied businesspeople rushing to get their trains.
As the Metro passed through the austere beige stations, whose ceilings were lined with what looked like cough drops but were actually engineering enhancements used to reduce echoes, Harvath kept his eyes peeled for any D.C. police or the brown-capped Metro cops that might already be looking for him. So far, so good.
Harvath got off the train and exited the system at the Foggy Bottom-GWU station. The Foggy Bottom area was the neighborhood just to the west of the White House that was home to George Washington University. It was also known as the West End.
He quickly made his way down Twenty-third toward the university and G Street. Halfway to Twentieth Street was the Washington Bytes cyber café and bakery. The smell of fresh roasted coffee filled his nostrils as he walked in. They had the best bagels in town, and Scot ordered one with cream cheese and chives, along with an OJ, before sitting down at one of the terminals in the back corner.
The café was an easy walk from the White House and an occasional haunt of Harvath’s when he needed to get away from the high-energy pace at work. Today, there were only a few students around, and where Scot sat no one could see him from the street.
All of the computers came equipped with a headset and web phone software. Scot reached up and disconnected the camera on top of his monitor. He allowed himself a bittersweet moment to think about Natalie once again before he took a bite of his bagel followed by a long swig of OJ and then hopped onto the web. He entered the telephone number for his home computer’s dedicated modem line and swallowed two Tylenols while he waited for the connection to complete.
After two rings and some electronic cross talk between the café’s computer and the one at home, Harvath was ready. He set about establishing a routing system that would bounce his call through several international servers. If the person he was about to call was tracing all of their incomings, it would take them quite a while to figure out where the call came from, and even when they unraveled the long electronic chain, all they would be left with was the appearance that the call originated from Harvath’s apartment.
Ten minutes later, the trail was set and Scot was ready to make his call. He dialed the number for Bill Shaw. His secretary answered on the first ring. Harvath identified himself, and after a couple of clicks and another ring, he was put through.
“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.