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“While authorities are not speculating as to the motive for the murders, no possibilities are being ruled out at this time. Moments ago the FBI mobile crime lab arrived on the scene-”
Scot turned off the TV. The nausea was returning, and he fought it down. Two more people who had trusted him were dead, but how? And why Natalie, of all people? Scot was overwhelmed with grief. She had been such a good friend. What happened? Shaw had told him that they had made it to the safe house. Could they have been followed? Both of them shot with a large-caliber weapon- Before he could finish the thought, Harvath ran toward his bedroom.
This room had been tossed as well, but now Scot didn’t care about preserving the scene. He needed to find his sidearm. Frantically, he tore apart the already a
As Scot continued to search, he caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye. He thought it was his head playing tricks on him and tried to ignore it. He went back to searching for the gun. He was on his hands and knees now, throwing pieces of clothing over his shoulder in a mad attempt to recover the SIG. The light came back. Harvath stopped searching. He looked up at the repeating colors of red, blue, red, blue, along the wall and realized they were coming from outside.
Keeping low, he scrambled toward the window and peered out through the partially open blinds. Pulling up to the curb below were several government favorites: dark-colored Ford Crown Victorias with suited drivers, which belonged to either the FBI, the Secret Service, or both. There were also several police cars.
My God, thought Harvath, they must think somehow that I am responsible for André’s and Natalie’s murders and are here to arrest me. All things considered, Harvath was also willing to bet that the gun used to commit the crime would turn out to be his missing SIG-Sauer.
While Scot was a stand-up guy, all for telling the truth and cooperating, something told him that now wasn’t the time to go gentle into that good night. He needed some answers first.
Trying to push the shock of Natalie’s and André’s murders from his mind, Scot grabbed his jeans from where he’d left them on the bathroom floor and transferred everything into the pockets of the trousers he was now wearing. He threw on his trench coat, stepped out, and locked the door to the apartment behind him. Turning to his left, he opened the door to the fire stairs and started down, careful not to make any noise.
41
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 co
While this system was no longer in use, the doors co
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 disco
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.