Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(38)
Ever the detail guy, Harvath strained to remember something of value. The Lithuanian had been partial to new-car-smell air fresheners, which was humorous, considering how old his truck was.
He remembered the pieces of duct tape covering the cracks in the truck’s faded dashboard. He also remembered the practically vintage, removable, orange-buttoned Alpine radio. But there was something else. Harvath remembered seeing some paperwork.
The driver had been taken aback when he had insisted on riding shotgun. Nevertheless, the Lithuanian had relented. When Harvath had climbed in, there were several documents laid out in the cab. As the driver was on his way back across the border, Harvath figured they must have been transit documents.
“I think I saw a name,” he said.
Nicholas looked up, over the top of his laptop.
“Lukas,” said Harvath, not really trusting his mind after all the drinking. “No, wait,” he corrected. “It wasn’t Lukas. It was Luksa. Spelled L-u-k-?-a.”
“First or last?”
“Last name. I think. There were only bits and pieces of papers visible.”
“Like I said,” Nicholas repeated, “Your recall is exceptional. Anything else?”
“Yeah. The guy was wearing a knockoff Members Only jacket and smelled like Drakkar Noir. That’s it.”
The little man chuckled. “I don’t know how useful that last bit is,” he said as he went back to his computer, “but it paints a definite picture.”
Harvath’s life sucked. His body ached, his heart was smashed in pieces, and he was dying for a drink, but the graveyard humor in him refused to die. The truck driver had actually been wearing a threadbare sweater and had smelled like garlic. It felt good to make his friend smile. It was the first time he had felt anything other than rage or despair in a while.
“So where does all this leave us?” he asked.
Lawlor shook his head. “I don’t know that it leaves us any better than when we started. Despite your feelings regarding Jasinski, I think someone should speak with her, just to make sure she hasn’t talked to anyone about Pedersen. Same thing for Proctor. Landsbergis too. I don’t think we should take anything for granted.”
“And what am I supposed to do while all of this is going on? Lawn darts? Horseback riding?”
“Actually,” said Nicholas, checking the clock on his computer, “you’ve got a tee time.”
“A what?”
“Someone’s expecting you at the golf course.”
“Who?” he asked, knowing it couldn’t be the President. Had POTUS been at Camp David, there would have been a palpable buzz and a heck of a lot more activity.
“Don’t worry,” said Lawlor. “Just go. It’s important. We’ll be here when you get back.”
CHAPTER 17
The minute Harvath saw who was standing at the second tee, he regretted having made the walk over.
“It’s no Burning Tree,” the man said, referring to the exclusive golf club in Bethesda that was allegedly a design inspiration. “But how many people can say they’ve played the President’s personal course?”
Dr. Joseph “Joe” Levi was the CIA’s top psychiatrist. When Harvath had escaped Russia and had been delivered back home, he had spent four days in a safe house on the Eastern Shore of Maryland being debriefed by Levi and CIA Director McGee.
It was standard operating procedure. Harvath had been held captive and tortured by a hostile foreign intelligence service. His debrief focused on three elements—what information the Russians had tried to extract from him, what information, if any, he had given up, and how the interrogations were carried out. Harvath had no doubt that his experience would be a case taught to future American intelligence operatives.
Once McGee was confident that the Russians hadn’t had Harvath long enough to break him, and that the handful of tiny things he had offered up were small potatoes, he had removed himself from the debrief and had let Levi conduct a more personal review. The moment the shrink had begun asking about Harvath’s feelings over losing his wife, Harvath had colorfully instructed him to take one very large step back.
He wasn’t interested in having his feelings explored. What’s more, he worked for The Carlton Group, not the CIA. Levi, beyond the national security implications of his capture, didn’t have the standing to analyze him. He wasn’t applying for a job with the CIA. If and when he ever did, they could run him through the psychological wringer then.
Levi was an interesting duck. In a clinical, debrief setting, he was all business—super professional, attuned to every detail. Nothing escaped him and he took copious notes. But when you caught him in a more relaxed setting, he seemed able to only speak one of two languages—cars or golf.
Dressed in a polo shirt and madras Bermuda shorts, he leaned nonchalantly on his graphite club, pulling a glove onto his right hand. “A hundred bucks says I’m in the cup in two.”
This fucking guy, Harvath thought. This was a part of the modern intelligence world that he really disliked. Access to mental health professionals was a good thing. Having them forced upon you, though—no matter how casual the setting—was something entirely different.
The last time Levi had tried to crawl inside his head, he had been sitting on the dock of the aforementioned safe house, minding his own business, when the shrink had materialized, dragging a cooler full of booze. It had been his attempt at bonding, in the hopes that Harvath would open up. But after a couple of drinks, Levi had left, disappointed.