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FORTY-ONE

Harvath had met Kevin McCauliff several years back while he was still with the Secret Service. Both he and McCauliff had been members of an informal group of federal employees who trained together every year for the annual Washington, DC, Marine Corps Marathon.

McCauliff worked for the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency. Formerly known as the National Imagery and Mapping Agency, the NGA was a major intelligence and combat support agency of the Department of Defense. Though the NGA was very much a member of the intelligence community, Kevin McCauliff wasn’t what Harvath would refer to as an established intelligence contact. For a few weeks out of the year, they ran together. That was pretty much the extent of their relationship. The possibility that anyone would be watching for Harvath to make contact with Kevin McCauliff was beyond infinitesimal. And even better, McCauliff owed Harvath a favor.

The imagery analyst was one of the few senior people at the NGA who actually enjoyed the night-shift because, as he put it, that was when all the action happened. The NGA’s operator put Harvath through to McCauliff’s desk and the twenty-eight-year-old, two-hour and fifty-five-minute marathoner answered on the first ring. “Kevin, it’s Scot Harvath,” he said from among the boxes of paperwork scattered across Marie Lavoine’s office.

“Harvath?” replied McCauliff’s familiar voice from over four thousand miles away at the NGA’s headquarters in Bethesda, Maryland. “It’s almost three in the morning. The marathon isn’t until October. Don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over strategy already.”

“I never lose sleep over strategy, Kevin. It’s just a race,” he replied.

“I’ll make sure I remind you of that at mile twenty-five if we get dusted by another pack of young leathernecks this year.”

Harvath laughed. They had posted a very admirable time in last year’s marathon, but he was a Navy man, and it was gut-wrenching to get blown away in the final mile by a group of young Marines whom they had had a considerable lead over for the entire race. “Okay, maybe it’s more than just a race, but that’s not why I called.”

“What’s up?”

“Remember back when I was working the president’s Secret Service detail at the White House and got your family on one of the VIP tours?”

“Of course I do. My mother and sister still talk about it — and you, as a matter of fact. You swear to God nothing happened between you and Denise?”

McCauliff was like Sonny Corleone when it came to his kid sister, and no matter what Harvath ever told him, the guy never believed anything he said about the evening they spent together. “You’re never going to let it go, are you? We had one drink and I dropped her back at her hotel. I’ve told you that a million times.”

“I know, but it’s over three years ago, and she still talks about you. What would you think if you were in my position?”

“I’d think I need some therapy.”

It was McCauliff who laughed this time. “I’ll take it under advisement,” replied the NGA operative as he switched the phone to his other ear. “So what can I do for you?”

“Have you ever heard of a satellite imaging company called Spot Image?”

“Sure. We’ve even done some work with them. Why?”

“Do you have a relationship with anybody there?”

McCauliff thought about it for a second. “I know a couple of people. Their U.S. offices are just over in Chantilly, Virginia. What do you need?”

Having seen the clippings Marie had kept from several French newspapers about Bernard’s disappearance and the subsequent search and rescue effort, Harvath said, “I’m working a missing person’s case overseas right now. The man’s name was Bernard Lavoine, L-A-V-O-I-N-E. He disappeared with two other individuals over a year ago on a climbing expedition in the Alps. He ordered a lot of satellite imagery from Spot, and I’m hoping that it might help shed some light on where he was when he disappeared.”

“So why isn’t someone from DHS calling them?”

“Because the case is personal, Kevin. I’m not operating in an official capacity.”

McCauliff was quiet for several moments on his end of the line. “You swear nothing happened between you and my sister, right?”

“Jesus, Kevin. Yes, I swear.”

“Okay,” he responded, “give me a way to get in touch with you, and I’ll see what I can do.”

After giving him the number at the hotel, Harvath thanked McCauliff and hung up the phone. Jillian then looked at him and said, “Now what?”

“Now, we wait.”