Blowback (17 page)

WASHINGTON, DC

Growing up in South Philly, one thing Neal Monroe was not was a punk. He had learned early on to mind his own business and never anyone else’s. At the same time, his grandmother had brought him up as a good Christian and someone who knew the difference between right and wrong. And what his boss, Senator Carmichael, was doing was wrong. There were no two ways about it. That was why he had put the call in to Charles Anderson, tipping him off that Carmichael was on Scot Harvath’s trail. While Monroe didn’t know Harvath personally, he had learned enough about him over the past three days to know he didn’t deserve what the senator was preparing to do to him, all in her pursuit of the White House.

Contacting the president’s chief of staff, especially when he was of the opposing party, was tantamount to committing political suicide, but Neal Monroe didn’t care. He had come to Washington for one thing-to make his country a better place-and promised himself that no matter what, he would always do the right thing. If Carmichael knew what he was doing, there was no question she’d fire him. There was also no question that he probably would never find another job in DC either, but at least his conscience would be clear.

As an African American, Monroe liked to joke with the other two minority staffers in the senator’s office-a young Asian woman named Tanya, and George, a Hispanic guy who grew up in Neal’s neighbor-hood-that they formed the perfect little Rainbow Coalition right there in Carmichael’s office, demonstrating how worldly and open-minded she thought she was. Though the senator didn’t intentionally mean to be patronizing, she always was whenever she asked them how “their people” might feel about a specific issue or piece of legislation she was working on. Tanya was so removed from her Asian heritage that she was the first one to ask for a fork every time they ordered Chinese, and though George put on a good show of being of Mexican descent, he couldn’t speak a word of Spanish.

The bottom line was that Carmichael only saw what she wanted to see, and in slow-roasting Scot Harvath over an open flame, she saw her ticket to the White House. Maybe it was that his distaste for his boss had been simmering for so long that it was bound to bubble over onto the stove at some point; maybe it was because he had put himself through college on the GI bill and saw Harvath as a fellow soldier; or maybe it was just the Christian thing to do, but however you cut it, Neal Monroe didn’t care if he lost his job or not. At the end of the day, he wanted no regrets.

Once he had called Rutledge’s chief of staff, Neal felt totally absolved of any further responsibility. But all of that changed when he discovered how the senator was getting her information.

Now, as he walked through the Discovery Creek Children’s Museum, he thought about what he was going to say to the man Charles Anderson had sent to talk with him. Standing near a small placard that illustrated how trees grow, Monroe spotted his contact. “They didn’t have any of this in the neighborhood I grew up in,” said Monroe as the man joined him.

“In my neighborhood, we didn’t even have trees,” replied Gary Lawlor.

Monroe offered the man his hand, and Gary shook it. “You’re a brave guy, Neal. You know that?”

“Why? Because I’m airing the senator’s dirty laundry?”

“If what you told Chuck is true, her laundry is well beyond dirty.”

“Suffice it to say that I don’t like the way she’s conducting the people’s business.”

A group of children was approaching, and so Lawlor suggested they take a walk. As they did, he looked around and said, “I’ve had clandestine meetings in a lot of interesting places over the years, but this is certainly one of the most unique. Why’d you pick it?”

“I knew it was the one spot where we’d never bump into Helen. The senator hates kids.”

“But I thought she had a daughter,” replied Lawlor.

“That’s a neighbor’s kid. They just rent her for photo ops.”

Gary laughed. “So what have you got? Chuck mentioned you’re pretty confident you know where Senator Carmichael is getting her information.”

Neal nodded his head. “I knew it was coming from one of the intelligence agencies. I just didn’t know which one. Until this morning that is.”

Lawlor couldn’t believe it. “You know who’s feeding her the information?”

“No. I only know where it’s coming from, not who’s behind it.”

“That’s still a start,” said Gary. “What’s the source?”

“ Langley, Virginia. The Central Intelligence Agency.”

PARIS

Harvath and Alcott found a small, twenty-four-hour Internet café a few blocks away and ordered two mugs of coffee. Except for a couple of backpackers waiting for an early morning train, the place was deserted. Harvath chose a computer in the back, sat down, and got on line. The first thing he did was log on to the public bulletin board site he used to covertly communicate with Gary Lawlor. He left a brief, coded summary of what had happened so far and then plugged in Davidson’s flash drive and began scrolling through her files. It took over twenty minutes of searching, but when he finally found the record of Sotheby’s mysterious client, he knew it couldn’t be a coincidence. There were two names, one of which he recognized and another which he didn’t. The name he did recognize, Elliot Burnham, was one of the aliases Harvath had uncovered during his investigation of none other than ex-Secret Service agent Timothy Rayburn.

His address was listed as being in care of a hotel called the Carré de l’Ours, or the Skin of the Bear, somewhere in southeastern France. Harvath had never heard of the village before and had to look it up online. Once he found it, he also pulled up the SNCF web site and began scanning timetables for the next high-speed TGV train to Nice. He knew driving the distance would take way too long, and the last thing he wanted to do was hassle with airport security. At least traveling by train, he’d be able to quietly carry his gun along with him. In Nice, they could rent a car and drive north into the Alps for the rest of the trip to the village of Ristolas.

After they gathered their belongings and checked out of the hotel, they took a cab across town to the Gare de Lyon. Once their train was safely outside of Paris and well on its way to the south of France, Harvath finally felt comfortable enough to close his eyes and get a few hours’ sleep.

In Nice, they used Harvath’s Sam Guerin credentials to rent the last car the agency had available, a midnight blue Mercedes. It was well into the evening by the time they pulled across the old wooden bridge and into the tiny village of Ristolas. The three-story, barnlike Alpine hotel known as the Skin of the Bear was located just off the main street. A series of low stone walls surrounded the building and looked as if they might have once been used for grazing livestock. They parked their rental in the driveway and climbed the wooden steps to the hotel’s ornately carved front doors.

A large stone fireplace with books covering its mantelpiece anchored the deserted reception area inside. One book in particular caught Harvath’s attention, and he walked immediately over to it and took it down. It was an autographed first edition of John Prevas’s Hannibal Crosses the Alps. Harvath held it up for Jillian to see. She looked at it for a moment and then went back to studying the many photographs that covered the reception area’s walls. They appeared to be of different climbers who must have used the hotel as a base camp over the years. In each one, there was a big bear of a man whom Jillian assumed was the hotel’s owner as well as a mountain guide.

Harvath had come over to join her and was hoping to spot Rayburn in one of the photos, when a petite, gray-haired woman of about sixty, her face as craggy as the mountains in the photos, emerged from the kitchen and said, “Bon soir. Puis-je vous aider?”

“Bon soir,” replied Harvath. “Avez-vous une chambre?”

Wearing a white, lace-trimmed apron over a loose-fitting peasant’s smock, the experienced hotelier recognized Harvath’s accent and replied in perfect English, “You’re American.”

“Yes.”

“And British,” added Jillian.

“You’re on your honeymoon,” said the woman, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. “I can always tell.”

For some reason, people often came to that conclusion when they saw Harvath with an attractive woman. He had no idea why. He figured he must have had a look about him that suggested he was perfect marriage material. He had learned the hard way, though, that at this point in his life, marriage or any kind of reasonable relationship was not in the cards for him. “No, we’re not here on our honeymoon. We came to climb. We’ve heard very good things about your hotel.”

“Really?” said the woman as she looked at the ground and smoothed the creases of her apron. “We don’t get many guests here anymore. Not since Bernard has gone.”

“Was Bernard your husband?” asked Jillian as she turned toward the photographs. “Is he the one I see in all of these?”

“Yes,” she said, managing a small smile. “Guests used to say they came for three things-Bernard, the climbing, and my cooking, in that order.”

“He sounds like he was very special.”

“He was. Everyone loved him.”

“What happened?” replied Harvath. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Bernard went climbing about a year ago and never came back.”

Tears began to form at the corners of the woman’s eyes, but she removed a tissue from her sleeve and quickly dabbed them away.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Jillian.

“It’s how he would have wanted to go,” responded the woman, “but you didn’t come to listen to the sad stories of an old woman. You came for a room. I have one available for fifty euros a night. I hope you don’t think it is too expensive, it’s just that-”

“No,” said Harvath, interrupting her with a smile. “Fifty euros is fine.”

“But we’ll need two rooms if possible, please,” Jillian added.

Definitely not on a honeymoon, Harvath thought to himself.

After unpacking his few belongings, Harvath walked downstairs for dinner. A small table had been set in the kitchen, and Marie, not expecting guests, apologized that all she had available was pottage. That didn’t bother Harvath. The temperature had dipped below freezing outside, and the weather was forecasted to get worse. It was a perfect night for soup. Actually, it was a perfect night for the fireplace, a good book, and a large glass of bourbon, but Harvath knew there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

As they ate their pottage, Marie explained that her husband, Bernard, had named the hotel the Carré de l’Ours after an old French saying, Don’t try to sell the skin of the bear until you have already gone out and killed it. She spoke fondly of him and of how Bernard had been born in Ristolas and had started hiking and climbing as soon as he could walk. Mount Viso and its surrounding mountains, valleys, and gorges had been his métier. The people of the village joked that his body had been formed from the mountain’s granite and that glacier water ran through his veins.

They still had a hard time believing that he had just gone off on a climb one day and never returned. Marie Lavoine had a hard time believing it too.

Without Bernard, the hotel had suffered. He had been the draw-the larger-than-life personality who organized and led top-of-the-line climbing and hiking trips throughout the area. Without him there anymore, even the most loyal clients began finding other guides and inns to stay at. When Bernard disappeared, it heralded the end of an era. It was obvious that Marie Lavoine had been struggling since his disappearance both emotionally and financially. As hard as it was going to be, Harvath decided it was time to address why they had come. “Marie, we need to ask you a question about one of your guests.”

“One of my guests? Who?”

“Elliot Burnham. An American.”

Lavoine looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if trying to recall the name and then back at Harvath. “I’m sorry, we usually received more Europeans than Americans, so you would think it would be easy for me to remember, but I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Harvath could see Marie Lavoine was lying to him. “Marie, this man is very dangerous. People have died because of him.”

At the mention that people had died because of Burnham, a sudden change came over her. Marie grew tense, and even Jillian could read it in the strained creases of her face. Lavoine’s small hands nervously twisted the napkin in her lap. “Who are you? Why are you asking me these questions?”

Jillian placed her hands atop the widow’s and tried to calm her. “Marie, your name, along with Elliot Burnham’s, was listed as the owner of a group of artifacts being authenticated for sale by Sotheby’s. Why is that?”

“I have no idea.”

It was there again, the tell. This time it was even more pronounced. Marie Lavoine was not a good liar. Harvath could see that she was on the edge of coming unraveled. “Marie, I can tell just by looking at you that you know who we’re talking about.”

Lavoine’s eyes started to tear again. “Why would you want to torment a lonely old woman?”

“Why would you want to protect a killer?”

“I am protecting no one.”

“You’re protecting the man who calls himself Elliot Burnham,” said Harvath as he raised his voice and tried to apply just a little more pressure. He could see she was almost there. She wanted to come clean about something. The guilt was eating away at her. She had a confession and it was right on the tip of her tongue. “If you don’t talk to us, we have no choice but to go to the police with this. I don’t want to do that. You seem like a very nice woman to me. Whatever your connection to this man is, I’m sure you had no idea what a bad individual he was; but if you don’t cooperate, we’re not going to be able to help you.”

“I needed his help,” said Lavoine, breaking down into tears.

“Help with what?” asked Jillian as she tried to comfort the woman.

“Selling some of the treasure.”

“Treasure?”

“Yes, the artifacts. I have no pension-nothing. Bernard left me only with the hotel and my memories. And only the memories are completely mine. The bank still expects its payments on the hotel. The artifacts are all I have. Please do not take them from me. Please,” the woman begged. “Monsieur Burnham and I were going to split the money. That is why he wanted to use the hotel for his address.”

After taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Lavoine told them that two years ago Elliot Burnham arrived at the hotel and asked for Bernard by name. Not only had Burnham been looking for the most knowledgeable guide in the region, he also wanted the most discreet. Bernard fit the bill on both counts. Over the years, many celebrities had called the Carré de l’Ours home while they tackled Mount Viso, and despite the pressure from lifelong friends in the village, Bernard had refused to divulge even the smallest bit of gossip about his guests. He had a sterling reputation and it paid off in spades with the arrival of Elliot Burnham.

Burnham presented himself as the director of a large archeological foundation in America. After leaving a sizable deposit, in cash, along with a list of equipment and supplies that would be needed, he returned a week later with the “chief archeologist from his foundation, “Dr. Donald Ellyson.

In Lavoine’s opinion Ellyson seemed to her a man who had been broken by the world, but at the same time, there was a confidence about him that suggested a hopefulness about the future. He was a confusing man of terrible habits-a hard drinker, a gambler, and a tomcat who liked to womanize in the surrounding villages, but someone who always had a kind word for her, especially when it came to her cooking. Ellyson’s death, as well as that of Maurice Vevé, whom Bernard often hired on as a Sherpa on his more involved expeditions, only made the death of her husband more painful. For just one of them to have been lost due to a misstep or maybe the poor placement of a crampon or ice axe would have been difficult to bear, but for all three men to lose their lives on the same day was an absolute tragedy.

“So he came to mount an expedition then?” queried Jillian, coaxing Marie Lavoine forward. “Did Burnham share with you what they hoped to find?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Bernard and Maurice had been sworn to secrecy. They were instructed not to discuss their work with anyone. Not even me. Monsieur Burnham booked out the entire hotel. He paid for all the rooms and did not care that they went empty.”

Jillian shrugged her shoulders in agreement and waited for Marie to continue.

“At first, Dr. Ellyson was extremely secretive. Even Bernard had no idea what the man was looking for. They made many trips to the Col de la Traversette -”

“What’s the Col de la Traversette?” asked Harvath.

“It’s a pass located just to the north of Mount Viso.”

“Did you know why Ellyson was so interested in it?” asked Jillian.

“Not at first,” said Lavoine. “But I had my suspicions. He was occupying two rooms. One he used for sleeping and the other became an office. I was never allowed in the room he used as an office. He kept it locked, and Bernard had turned over all of the keys to it. The room he used for his living quarters was something different. We had a young girl from the Czech Republic who did our cleaning, but Dr. Ellyson didn’t trust her. I was the only one he would allow to clean his room.”

Alcott nodded encouragingly.

“I did my best to respect Dr. Ellyson’s privacy. But one day, I noticed something unusual on his bedside table. There were three books I had not seen before. I assumed that he had brought them from his office across the hall so that he could read them in the evening before he went to sleep. What was interesting, though, was that there were three copies of the exact same book. Each had been highlighted with a specific color, but all in different places.”

“That’s odd,” replied Jillian.

“That’s exactly what I thought, especially as we knew the author of the book quite well. He had spent many summers here doing research and climbing with Bernard.”

“Who was it?”

“His name is John Prevas.”

“Hannibal Crosses the Alps,” replied Harvath. “I saw it in your reception area.”

“Yes, Monsieur Prevas was kind enough to send us a signed copy when it was published,” said Marie.

“Why was Ellyson so interested in this particular book? What’s so special about it?”

“It is different from other books about Hannibal and the route he took over the Alps. The Col de la Traversette has always been very dangerous, not only because of the steep terrain, but because until the 1970s smugglers controlled it as a way to get from France into Italy. Scholars had avoided investigating the Traversette as a possible route for Hannibal ’s army because of, as a man named deBeer put it, ‘the ease with which triggers were pulled in the area.’ I was never very much interested in the subject until Monsieur Prevas became our guest, but then I began reading. I am certainly no expert, but his book is the most convincing I have ever encountered regarding the true route Hannibal and his army used when crossing the Alps.”