StateoftheUnion

by Неизвестный

  “Helmut’s long gone,” said Scot. “You killed him yourself.” He waited for some response, but all he saw was exhaustion. He decided to press on. “Stay with me Gary. I need your help. Frank Leighton is testing me and I need—”

  Once again, he was interrupted by Lawlor’s tortured writing. This was getting him nowhere. Lawlor just wasn’t with it. Harvath watched as he began drawing a larger circle around Helmut’s name and decided to give it one last shot.

  Placing his hand atop Gary’s, he stopped him from the incessant circle he was drawing, which was almost tearing through the paper, and looked directly into his friend’s eyes. “Gary, this is very important. You have to listen to me. Pay attention to what I’m saying.”

  Exhausted from trying to get his message across, Lawlor’s body slumped. His eyelids appeared to grow heavier and it seemed he was on the verge of falling back asleep.

  “Gary,” said Scot. “C’mon now. I need to make contact with Frank Leighton via theemergency contact point . I need to know how I do that.”

  Lawlor struggled against his drooping lids and gripping the pen tighter, drew a box and then drew an upside downU on top of it. Harvath looked at it for a second and then guessed at what he was seeing.

  “Is that a suitcase?”

  Lawlor said nothing.

  “Gary, I want you to tap the pen once for yes, twice for no.”

  He tapped his pen once.

  “It’s a suitcase, good. Is it Frank Leighton’s suitcase?”

  Two taps—no.

  “Is ityour suitcase?”

  Yes.

  “What about it? Is there something in your suitcase?”

  Yes.

  Harvath lowered his voice. “Is it the burst transmitter?”

  Lawlor was silent for a moment; the only noise between them was the metallic click of the ventilator. Then he tapped his pen once foryes .

  “Okay. I’ve got your transmitter,” said Harvath.

  Lawlor drew a question mark on the pad.

  “You and Frank Leighton both had mugs in your houses from the Leydicke pub. I got lucky.”

  One tap—yes.

  Harvath smiled at Gary’s response. Maybe he was inside there after all. “Do I make contact with Leighton, or will he make contact with me? And what about the encryption code?”

  Lawlor was frustrated and slowly tapped his pen over and over again.

  “I’m sorry,” said Harvath. “One question at a time.”

  One tap—yes.

  “Do I call Leighton?”

  Two taps—no.

  “He calls me then?”

  One tap—yes.

  “Okay, where?”

  Lawlor motioned to Harvath to flip to a clean page and when he did, Gary began trying to write something then gave up and drew a crown with the letterG in the center and beneath it the letters “Mme.”

  Great, thought Harvath,more gibberish .

  “Is this a place?” asked Harvath, watching the pen for Gary to tap out his response. Several moments passed. Harvath looked up and saw that Gary’s eyes were closed. “C’mon, Gary. I only have a few more questions. Are you with me?”

  Harvath heard the pen touch the pad in what he thought was ayes response, but as he looked down and saw it fall from Gary’s hand, a shrill whistle began to pierce the air of the recovery room.

  Trawick ran over, took one look at Gary and then checked the monitors above his bed. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “He’s going into ventricular fibrillation. Nurse! Code Blue. Get me the defibrillator.” Turning to Harvath he said, “Outside. Now!”

  Harvath reluctantly gathered up the pad Gary had been writing on and backed out of the room. The last thing he saw was a team of nurses gathered around the bed helping Skip prep Gary as the defibrillator was wheeled over and powered up.

  Outside the recovery room, Hollenbeck and Longo were still standing guard. Harvath filled them in on what had happened, and they all stood around in silence until Skip emerged ten minutes later with word that Gary had been taken back into surgery. It didn’t look good, and Skip suggested that Harvath make himself comfortable as it was probably going to be a while.

  Hollenbeck and Longo followed Trawick up to the operating room while Harvath set off in search of Herman and DeWolfe. He found them watching TV in a small waiting room just off the Intensive Care Unit.

  “How is he?” asked Herman, as Harvath walked in.

  “Not good,” replied Scot. “He was only awake in recovery for a few minutes and then he crashed. They just took him back into surgery.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said DeWolfe as he got up and turned down the volume on the TV set. “Were you able to talk with him at all?”

  “Not really. He was still intubated, and Skip said he might have suffered some cranial trauma during his ordeal. The best I could do was ask questions while he scribbled on this pad,” said Harvath holding it up. “None of it, though, makes much sense.”

  Harvath grabbed a chair and placed the pages from the notepad on his lap. “Like I said,” he began, “none of this makes much sense. Gary just wanted to know about the man who killed his wife fifteen years ago.”

  “Why do you think he would do that?” replied DeWolfe.

  Harvath took another look and said, “I’ve got no idea. I think this was what Skip was trying to warn me about. The damage to his head might have impaired his ability to focus and communicate properly.”

  “Did he know you were talking to him?”

  “He seemed to. When I asked him some yes-or-no questions, he would tap the pen on the pad in response. Once foryes and twice forno .”

  “What’s on the last page there?” asked Herman.

  “That one makes even less sense,” said Harvath, picking up the piece of paper and peering at it. “He drew it after I asked him where the emergency contact point was. To tell you the truth, it looks like a gang sign to me.”

  “Maybe it’s a place or some sort of location,” replied Herman.

  “Or a clue to where he hid his cookies as a little boy,” answered Harvath. “I can’t vouch for the authenticity of any of this.”

  “Back up a second. What’s the drawing look like?” asked DeWolfe.

  “It’s a crown with aG in it with some letters underneath,” answered Harvath.

  “A crown with aG in it?” said Herman. “Let me see that.”

  Harvath handed the page to Toffle who removed a pair of glasses from his coat pocket and took a closer look.

  “When did you start wearing glasses, Herman?” asked Scot.

  “None of your business, and you never saw this,” responded Toffle.

  “Hey,” said Harvath, “wearing glasses is your business. And if that’s the way you want it, then I never saw anything.”

  “Not my glasses, youBlöde Fotze . This symbol. You’ve never seen it before?”

  Harvath, who felt sureBlöde Fotze wasn’t a term of endearment, leaned in closer to Herman to take another look at Lawlor’s drawing. “Absolutely not,” he said, after a closer inspection. “I’ve never seen it before. Have you?”

  “Maybe. Let me ask you something about your friend Gary Lawlor.”

  “Herman, if you know what that symbol is,” said Harvath, his voice a mix of eagerness and frustration, “let’s have it. Don’t beat around the bush with me.”

  “How can I put this delicately?” replied Toffle.

  “Herman. Fuckdelicately . We don’t have time for it. What the hell is it?”

  Herman paused either for effect, or to figure out the best way to give voice to his discovery. Harvath suspected it was the latter and his suspicion was confirmed when Toffle said, “It’s the logo for a bordello called the King George. It’s located in the Steglitz district.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Harvath.

  “Positive.”

  Harvath was well aware of his friend’s proclivity for loose women; a character trait Herman Toffle claimed he had wholeheartedly sworn off when he had
gotten married.

  Toffle looked at his friend and then said, “The King George is actually not a bad choice for a contact point. It is open at all hours and it wouldn’t look odd for anyone to be seen entering or leaving there. What confuses me are these three letters ‘M M E’ underneath the logo.”

  “They must stand for something.”

  Harvath looked at his Kobold Phantom chronograph. “Well, we’ve got less than two hours, so I suggest we put our thinking caps on.”

  “Let me take a look at that,” said DeWolfe, as he walked across the room, took the paper from Toffle and studied it. “Harvath, I can’t believe you missed this.”

  “Missed what?”

  “I thought you spoke French,” replied the communications expert, handing the drawing to him.

  “A little, yes.” Harvath looked harder and then it hit him. Smiling, he said, “Now we know who to ask for when we get to the King George.”

  “How’d you figure that out?” demanded Toffle as he grabbed the page back and looked at it.

  “M-m-e, Herman,” replied Harvath.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “It’s the French abbreviation forMadame .”

  Chapter 31

  First a porn production facility and now a brothel.Harvath had always thought that Amsterdam was Europe’s most colorful capitol, but he was beginning to change his mind.

  The King George looked like any other five-story gray stone building in Berlin. With its handsome balconies and decorative fleur-de-lis ironwork covering the mullioned windows of the first three levels, it could have been the headquarters of a successful multinational, or a multifamily dwelling.

  After parking their car, the trio walked up a short flight of stone steps that gave onto a large door painted a subdued green and accented with brass fixtures. Herman rang the bell and when a voice came back over the intercom, he announced himself as “Herr Toffle.”

  “You take me to all the best places,” said Harvath as the door unlocked and Herman pushed it open.

  “Don’t joke,” replied Toffle. “Thisis one of the best places in all of Berlin.”

  The threshold of the marble foyer was covered by a long Persian runner leading right up to an enormous metal detector. Flanking the metal detector were two colossal security guards. Their shaved heads and massive builds stood in stark contrast to their dark Savile Row suits, impeccably knotted silk ties, and handmade, custom-fitted John Lobb shoes.

  “Uh-oh,” said DeWolfe under his breath to Harvath.

  “What? You’re just as good looking as these guys and with ten thousand extra, could be dressed just as nice,” replied Scot.

  “Very funny, Harvath. I was referring to the metal detector. Something tells me this is not a business that welcomes heavy iron.”

  “Are you saying you came armed?”

  “Right. And you’re packing nothing more than that sparkling personality of yours.”

  “Don’t worry,” smiled Harvath. “I’m sure Herman has this all taken care of.”

  At that moment, Toffle limped through the metal detector, and its alarm immediately went off. Harvath and DeWolfe hung back and waited.

  The two guards approached Herman and asked him to raise his arms. The big German smiled politely and began to do as they asked. As soon as they were close enough, his hands shot out in a move that seemed to defy the laws of physics itself. The two guards were left in a tangle of rumpled, yet expensive fabric, minus their sidearms, which Herman now had trained on them.

  “Oh, shit,” said DeWolfe who quickly pulled his gun to back up Toffle.

  Several tense seconds passed. Then, both the security guards and Herman began laughing.

  His index fingers in the trigger guards, Toffle released his grip and spun the pistols so he could hand them back, butts first.

  “What the hell is this?” asked DeWolfe, not sure of what he was seeing.

  Harvath began to laugh. He remembered when he was a SEAL and had first met Herman in a cross-training exercise. Herman loved to sneak up on people and steal their sidearms without them knowing. What’s more, he had a particular affinity for it. Harvath, though, was the one person he could never get the better of. “You’ve still got it, Herman.”

  “Of course I do. In fact I never lost it.”

  “What the hell is going on?” asked DeWolfe again

  “Put your gun away,” said Harvath, “before you shoot somebody.”

  DeWolfe did as instructed. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Everybody should have at least one good trick,” said Herman. “Now, gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Kiefer and Verner.” Herman didn’t offer Harvath and DeWolfe’s names, and being the professionals that they were, Kiefer and Verner didn’t ask for them.

  After the men shook hands, the security guards waved Harvath and DeWolfe around the metal detector.

  “You sure you’ve sworn off these places?” said Harvath to Herman as they walked down a short hallway toward a stylish reception area. “The boys at the door sure seemed to know you very well.”

  “They’re ex-army. Their uncle is an old friend of mine. I got them their jobs here,” said Herman, showing his two colleagues into a beautifully appointed anteroom.

  “Herr Toffle,” exclaimed an attractive blonde in her mid-twenties, who walked out from behind an ornately carved wooden desk to greet her guest. “How lovely to see you again.” She was dressed in a perfectly tailored blazer with just the right hint of hug around her perfectly shaped breasts. Her skirt, though it rode a bit above mid-thigh, was still tasteful in its cut and expertly straddled the tantalizing line between revealing and concealing all at the same time.

  “Hello, Nixie,” said Herman, grasping the two hands the young woman presented to him and kissing her on both cheeks. “How are you?”

  “I am well, Herr Toffle. Thank you for asking,” responded Nixie, who turned toward Harvath and DeWolfe and said, “You are going to spoil the girls by bringing such handsome colleagues with you. Maybe we should ask Kiefer and Verner to accompany you this evening for your own protection.”

  Harvath had to admit, the woman was flawless—both in her outward appearance and how she handled her customers. She reminded him of the VIP concierges he had seen in Las Vegas who were charged with looking after a hotel’s high rollers. This was very much the same situation. Though they treated you with respect and a healthy dose of attention and flattery, the bottom line was the same. They wanted you to spend as much money as possible and enjoy spending it so you would come back again. Though it was a brothel, Harvath had to admit that by what he had seen of it so far, it was a class act.

  “Unfortunately,” said Herman. “We’re not here for pleasure this evening. This is more of a business call.”

  For a moment, Nixie appeared crestfallen. But in an instant, her professional demeanor returned, with just a hint of a childish pout lingering on her extremely full red lips.

  Yup, thought Harvath,this woman was a pro all right . If the rest of the women at King George’s were like Nixie, he couldn’t help wondering how any man ever walked out of there with any money left in his pockets at all.

  “Well, when it is settled, maybe you’ll agree to stay?” asked Nixie, the consummate saleswoman.

  “Maybe next time,” said Herman with a smile. “We need to speak with Gerda. Is she in, please?”

  It shouldn’t have surprised Harvath that Herman knew the madam by her first name, but it did nevertheless. He looked over at DeWolfe, who was standing in front of a flat panel monitor in a gilded frame showing what looked like runway footage from the Victoria’s Secret fashion show, but what Harvath assumed was a promotional piece highlighting the staff of the King George.

  “Boy are Carlson and Avigliano going to be sorry that they missed this,” said DeWolfe, whose eyes were glued to the screen. “I think I just fell in love. Yup. Oh, wow! It just happened again. These women are incredible.”

  “Easy, Trigger,” said Harvath. �
�As well-funded as you boys are, there’s no way tricky Ricky would let you expense something like this. And you could save up a week’s per diem and not be able to pay for what you’re looking at there. So do yourself a favor and step away from the monitor. That’s it, stepaway from the monitor.”

  DeWolfe did as Harvath suggested and rejoined his colleagues at Nixie’s desk.

  Hanging up the phone, the attractive blond said, “I’m sorry, Herr Toffle, but it appears Frau Putzkammer was called away a short time ago and has not yet returned.”

  “Do you have a cell phone number we could reach her at?”

  “I tried her handy already, but there was no answer. I hope it is nothing serious.”

  Herman looked at Harvath. “How much time do we have?”

  “Less than forty-five minutes,” replied Harvath checking his Kobold.

  “Actually, Nixie,” replied Herman. “This is very serious and we don’t have much time.”

  “Herr Toffle, if there is a way I can be of assistance to you, please say so.”

  Herman looked again at Harvath, torn as to how much he should share with Nixie. When Harvath raised his watch ever so slightly and tapped it, Herman decided they only had time for the direct approach. “Years ago, Gerda, Frau Putzkammer, worked closely with a group of American military men, and now one of them has been very badly injured here in Berlin. We believe he was a friend of Frau Putzkammer’s and that if she knew about his situation, she would want to help him.”

  “Of course,” said Nixie. “She has often spoken of the American military men who were some of her best customers.”

  “I am sure and that is very kind of her, but these men were very serious, elite soldiers. We’re not talking about ordinary American GIs. This group, Frau Putzkammer would definitely remember.”

  Nixie’s façade seemed to soften. “When would these men have been in Berlin?”

  “Before the wall came down. They were a small group charged with—”

  “Für die Sicherheit?” asked Nixie, cutting off Herman’s sentence.

  “Yes,” answered Harvath. “But how could you know that?”

  “Let me get someone to take over for me, and we can talk,” said Nixie as she pressed one of the many buttons on her phone and spoke in rapid fire German. Moments later a stunning redhead emerged from a discreet side door to relieve Nixie, who then showed her guests out of the reception area and into a small elevator.