State Of The Union

“Benoit, I have a lot of phone calls yet to make, so I’m going to save us both some time and cut right to the chase. We agree with you one hundred percent that by all acceptable standards, the intelligence we have thus far is not independently actionable. But when you co

Moments later, and for the first time since the situation had broken, president Jack Rutledge allowed himself to relax. “Thank you, Benoit. I’m glad we can count on you,” he said as he hung up the phone.

The feeling of relaxation, though, quickly dissipated as Rutledge’s chief of staff, Charles Anderson, who had been simultaneously reviewing the top secret folder containing the nuclear evacuation plan for the president and his daughter, hung up the extension he’d been listening in on and said, “Well done. Only twenty-three more calls to go.”

Chapter 22

Harvath and Herman drove through the Schöneberg district once again, though Herman made sure to steer well clear of all of the police activity near the Goltzstrasse. They passed the Rathaus Schöneberg, which Harvath recognized as the site of Ke

It was in a relatively quiet neighborhood with easy access to public transportation. Though it might attract some tourists, by and large its clientele was going to be regulars, which made picking out anyone who didn’t belong there a lot easier. The pub was close enough to the safe house to be easy to get to, yet far enough away so that when coming or going, you had plenty of time to make sure you weren’t being followed. Scot saw a sign outside proclaiming that the bar had been operated by the Leydicke family for over one hundred years. If Gary Lawlor and Frank Leighton had patronized this bar often enough to get their own steins, chances were very good that somebody in the family was going to remember them. Harvath’s real hope was that one of those memories would be a recent one.

The Leydicke was a traditional German drinking establishment, known as aKneipe, with lots of carved wood and heavy oak tables. There was a distillery on the premises, and in addition to a wide variety of beers, the Leydicke offered a superb selection of sweet wines and liquors. They looked to be the only people in the place and easily found an empty table. As they sat down in the semi darkness of the dimly lit bar, it felt like they had stepped back in time. For ambiance alone, Harvath would have given it five stars, but he wasn’t writing a review, he was here for information.

When a waitress failed to arrive and take their order, Herman suggested they go up to the bar.

“Ich möchte gerne zwei Bier, bitte,” said Scot when they got there.

“Big or small?” responded the barman in English, picking up on Harvath’s American accent and the fact that he asked so politely, unlike a local who would have simply said, “zwei Bier, bitte.” The man was short, about five foot four with a large stomach that hung over his white apron. His wire rimmed glasses rested upon a rather bulbous nose, which stood guard over a thick and unkempt mustache. He was easily in his late sixties, if not older, and balding.

“Big, I guess,” replied Harvath.

“We’re closing, so you get small,” said the barman.

“So much for German hospitality,” responded Harvath under his breath. Herman just rolled his eyes.

When the bartender placed their small beers in front of them, Scot withdrew a picture taken of him along with Gary Lawlor at one of Gary’s summer barbeques and handed it across the bar. “Look familiar?”

Before the man could say anything, Harvath caught the slightest hint of recognition on the man’s face, which he quickly masked.

“Nein,” he said, handing the photo back.

“You’ve never seen the man standing next to me in that photo?” asked Harvath.

“Nein.”

There it was again. The tell. Most people would have missed it, but his Secret Service training to detect what scientists referred to as microexpressions, the subtle and almost imperceptible facial cues that subjects unknowingly give off when they are not telling the truth, made it clear to Harvath that the man was lying.

“Maybe we could talk to one of the managers?”

“There is no manager here.”

“Well what about one of the family members? One of the owners?”

“I am Hellfried Leydicke, the head of the family and the owner of this bar.”

“Maybe you should look at the photo again,” said Harvath as his eye was drawn to one of the shelves behind the bar, above the liquor bottles. “This man was a pretty good customer of yours a long time ago.”

“I am sorry, but I do not know him. Please finish your beers, the bar is now closed.”

Herman shook his head. “No large beersand no information.”

“Herr Leydicke,” interjected Harvath. “This man’s name is Gary Lawlor. He’s a very good friend of mine and he’s in a lot of trouble. I came a long way to help him. Look at the photo once more.”

“I don’t need to see the photo again,” commanded Leydicke, “You need to go.”

Scot gestured to Herman and then pointed behind the bar. “See that beer stein up there? The one with the barbed wire?”

“Yeah.”

“Do me a favor and get it down. I think it might help jog Herr Leydicke’s memory.”

Herman leaned over the bar, reached up, and grabbed the mug.

Having explained Gary’s Berlin co

“Zero out of twelve.”

“That seems fitting enough as he wasn’t actually an official team member. But you were a member of the family, so to speak, weren’t you? Those men spent a lot of time in here, didn’t they?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Those steins are simple tourist items,” replied Leydicke.

“Really?” said Harvath remembering what Defense Secretary Hilliman had told him toward the end of their meeting when he remarked on how Gary and Frank Leighton had the same numbered beer steins in their houses. “Because they way I heard it, the team members had all taken turns sneaking up onto the wall at night to snip their own authentic piece of history. How’d you get the barbed wire on your mug? Did you slip on your night vision goggles one evening and scale the wall praying that the East German border guards wouldn’t see you and open fire? Something tells me you didn’t. Somebody else risked their life to get it for you. On the back of the mug where it talks aboutFür die Sicherheit, For the Security, that was their unit motto. What security did you help to protect?”

Leydicke was silent. Harvath knew he had hit the nail right on the head. “Listen,” he continued, “we need to talk. Most of those men you knew are dead, and not from old age either. Someone has killed them. There are only two left and I don’t want to see anything happen to them.”

After several moments, Leydicke relented and said, “Let me lock up and we’ll talk.”

The bar closed for the evening, Hellfried Leydicke set a tray of food along with threelarge Bären Pils beers on the table in his office.