The Lions Of Lucerne

35

Director Jameson saved his admonishments for the ride home, and Scot took each one of them without arguing. Had he been given a chance to get a word in edgewise, he might have admitted that some of his actions had surprised even him, but as it stood, he rode along in the director’s limousine in silence.

As they pulled up to Harvath’s apartment building, it was already after ten o’clock, and Director Jameson ordered him to be at the Treasury Building the next morning for a full debriefing in the presence of the secretary. Jameson also warned him that the secretary of the treasury was not a man to be fooled around with and that Harvath had better be on his best behavior.

Thanking the director, Scot closed the door of the limo, turned the collar of his trench coat up against the rain, and didn’t bother to open his umbrella for the short run up the pavement to the front entrance. He ignored his mailbox and took the stairs slowly, his headache not having abated much in the past several hours. At his door, he checked that the brown hair was exactly where he had left it. It was. He took it down, removed the keys from his pocket, and let himself in.

The apartment looked exactly the same. Why he expected it to be any different, he didn’t know. Sometimes he mused about how nice it would be to have someone waiting on the other side of the door when he came home, someone friendly. His lifestyle had never been conducive to long-term relationships. In the SEALs he could be mobilized at a moment’s notice and be gone for months at a time without any warning. He had watched a lot of Special Operations guys go through painful and messy divorces. The simplest answer for Scot was to just avoid getting too serious with anyone. Casual relationships were a lot easier. And it had never been tough finding women who wanted to be with him-temporarily.

Several women in Scot’s life had liked him enough to press him on committing to a deeper relationship. None of them ever understood why he soon thereafter broke things off or, more often, just faded away. As difficult as it was for him, he believed that was easier in the long run.

While his hectic life had calmed down a lot since retasking to the Secret Service, it was still unpredictable, and after all, old habits, especially those of the heart, really did die hard.

Scot continued to reflect on bachelorhood as he hung his trench coat and took off his suit. Putting on a dark blue sweat suit with the word Navy written in yellow across the chest and on the upper-left thigh, he decided a little light exercise might do him some good. He put on a pair of Nikes, exited his apartment, and headed downstairs.

With the building’s history of less-than-stellar tenants and more than one break-in, the landlady was extremely glad to have Secret Service agent Scot Harvath living in one of her apartments. He had not needed to ask her twice about using a small corner of the relatively empty basement as a place to set up his exercise equipment.

The workout was slow going. Harvath spent the first twenty minutes doing some light stretching. The exercises allowed him to assess the damage that had been done to his body and how well he was healing. While he was still tremendously sore, he knew that a lot of the stiffness he felt could be relieved by working out. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he could jump right back into his routine, so he knocked down the normal amounts he lifted to sixty percent. He remembered Dr. Helsabeck’s warnings not to exacerbate his symptoms through stress or physical exertion, so he made sure not to push things too hard. His muscles burned. The familiar sensation felt good and helped take his mind off of his headache, both the one between his ears and the one that came between paychecks-his job.

Harvath finished his workout with forty-five minutes on the treadmill. The mindless repetition of jogging on the inclined belt allowed him to be lost in exercise-induced euphoria for just a little while longer. Returning to his apartment, he noticed the new-call light blinking on his caller ID box. As he crossed the living room to pick up his cordless phone, it began to ring.

“Harvath,” he answered.

“Scot, thank God you’re finally home. I have been trying to get ahold of you for over an hour,” said an agitated female voice.

“Natalie, is that you?” asked Scot. Natalie Sperando was assistant to the social secretary of the White House and coordinated most of President Rutledge’s social appearances. While Secret Service guidelines strictly forbade Service perso

“Yes, it’s me. Scot, I need your help,” she said.

“What kind of help? You sound upset. Are you okay?”

“I can’t go into it over the phone. I need you to meet me.”

“It sounds serious.”

“Very.”

“All right. I just finished working out. Let me grab a shower and-”

“I need to meet you now. Can you take the shower later?” asked Natalie.

“Nat, do you want to give me an idea what this is all about?”

“I can’t. Not over the phone.”

“Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“Kind of. It involves a friend of my brother’s. Please, Scot. Can you just come meet me?”

“Sure. I’ll bag the shower. Tell me where you are.”

Natalie gave Scot the name and address, telling him to hurry. He got out of his sweats and pulled on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt. He glanced at his holstered SIG next to the bed and realized it would mean either another layer of clothing or he would have to keep his jacket on all night to conceal it. He decided against it. He wouldn’t need a gun where he was going.

Harvath had the cabbie drop him at the Dupont Circle Metro stop. From there he walked down Massachusetts Avenue toward Scott Circle. He turned onto Seventeenth Street and walked to an upscale pub known as J.R.’s.

J.R.’s catered to a gay clientele that liked to refer to themselves as “guppies,” or gay urban professionals. With its long varnished bar and stained-glass windows, had it not been for the lack of women, J.R.’s would have looked like any other D.C. watering hole. As Scot made his way through the patrons enjoying the Tuesday five-dollar all-you-can-drink special, he finally found Natalie in the back corner with a man he didn’t recognize.

“Oh, Scot. I’m so glad you’re here,” said Natalie as she stood to give him a hug.

“Anything for you, Nat. You know that, but can you tell me what I’m doing sitting in a bar at,” he paused to look at his watch, “at twelve o’clock on a Tuesday night?”

“It’s all my fault, I’m afraid. At least to a certain degree,” said the man who was sitting at the table with Natalie. He looked pale and drawn. Scot noticed when he offered his hand that his wrist was crudely bandaged and some blood showed through.

Scot took the man’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr…”

The man threw a tentative glance toward Natalie, who nodded her head that everything was okay.

“Martin. My name is André Martin. We met about a month ago when I was visiting the White House to see Natalie. It’s okay, though, you must meet a lot of people in your job.”

“You’ll forgive me. I’m normally good with faces. What can I do for you?”

Before he could answer, a waiter who had been hovering close by came over to take their drink orders.

André ordered himself another bourbon, Natalie declined, her wineglass still half full, and Scot ordered a Heineken.

When the waiter left, André lifted his glass and finished the small bit of brownish gold liquid that remained. His hand shook.

“Okay, Nat, you said this was important and had something to do with a friend of your brother’s,” said Scot.