The Lions Of Lucerne

25

Scot fumed all the way back to the command center. The hypocritical bullshit Lawlor was shoveling was too much. He knew damn well that Lawlor probably bowed, bent, and broke every rule in the book during his search for the people responsible for killing his fellow FBI agents. Nobody blamed him at all, and knowing Lawlor, nobody probably even dared to stand in his way.

In all fairness to Gary, Scot understood that there was a chain of command and a way things needed to be done for the sake of effectiveness. He’d been in the Navy, after all. But, the unassailable fact here was that Scot had lost at least thirty men and the president was missing. No matter what Lawlor said, Scot’s career was in his own hands and the only thing that would turn the tide in his favor was if he stumbled upon something that broke the investigation wide open.

He’d assembled a few clues, but nothing earth-shattering. Lawlor wouldn’t listen to him at this point anyway, so he was back where he’d started-on his own.

Harvath hopped out of Deputy MacIntyre’s Suburban before it had even come to a stop and, flashing his credentials at the gate, was shown through. He made his way to the Winnebago and bounded up the stairs, hoping to find Palmer inside. She was in back, working at the same table Longo had been at earlier.

Glancing up from her laptop, she saw Scot coming down the narrow hallway. “Well, someone’s been a busy boy today.”

“Very funny.”

“Who’s being funny?”

“Yuk, yuk, yuk…Any news?”

“We got a couple of breaks.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Well, we got a confirmation back on the Middle Easterner. Name’s Hassan Useff. The Mossad ID’d him. He was a freelance sniper who worked for many of the pro-Palestinian-liberation groups, in particular some of the more radical splinter factions of the PLO. He had been tied to several high-profile assassinations in Israel.”

“Hmmm,” said Scot. “Well, that does and doesn’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“The weapon he was found with was a Skorpion. It makes sense in that the Skorpion is one of the preferred weapons of the PLO, but it’s predominantly a defensive weapon. The long-range accuracy isn’t that good. And because it’s so small, on fully automatic it’s more of an S and P.”

“S and P?”

“Sorry, it’s a term from my past. S and P means ‘spray and pray.’ The Skorpion cuts a wide swath when it’s set to full auto, and the shooter just sprays bullets and prays he hits his target. You know, a room broom.”

“But what if it wasn’t set on fully auto?”

“Well, it can hold a ten-to-twenty-round magazine, but why wouldn’t a sniper use a more accurate and dependable weapon?”

“Maybe he had one and his buddies took it with them.”

“And, what, left him with a weapon that screams PLO? It doesn’t make sense.” Scot took a seat next to Agent Palmer as his eyes glazed over in thought.

“When you were in the SEALs, didn’t you ever carry any American-made weaponry?”

His mind half on what Palmer had said and half somewhere else, Scot answered, “It depended on the mission, but we would never leave one of our men or any of our equipment behind. In and out without trace was our M.O.”

“You know, I once dated a SEAL, and if he had applied the same policies to my bathroom, instead of leaving behind a minefield of wet towels and toilet seats in the up position, we might still be together.” Palmer laughed, trying to help lift the intense mood Scot had slipped into, but it didn’t work.

“You like chocolate, right?”

“Show me a woman who doesn’t,” answered Palmer.

“And all that stuff you brought back from your trip to Europe last year-”

“You mean the chocolate that I brought back and left in the duty room at the White House that you piglets wolfed down and didn’t even leave me a piece of?”

“Yeah, that would be the chocolate I’m talking about.”

“What about it?”

“Where’d you get it? I mean, did you buy it at the duty free, or did you go to specialty shops?”

“Let me see. I kind of bought it all over. I was traveling by train on one of those Eurail passes, and it was nice to have it to snack on. I just picked it up here and there.”

“Any place in particular?”

Palmer tried to jog her memory. “I started my trip in Belgium, and since they’re really known for their chocolate, I think I bought a good supply at a shop across the street from the train station. That lasted me through France, and when I got to Austria, I picked up some Mozart’s Balls.”

“‘Mozart’s Balls’?”

“When you say it in German, it’s not as dirty.”

“And, after Austria?”

“Ah, let me think, after Austria…Oh, yeah. After Austria, I went to Switzerland. They are really famous for chocolate, but I think it’s more like milk chocolate they’re famous for. The Belgians do lots of fancy things with chocolate, but not so much the Swiss. The Belgians would put chocolate on a cheeseburger and try to sell it, while the Swiss really seem to like milk chocolate bars. Next, I went to Italy and they had those awesome Baci Balls-”

“Sorry, back up a sec.”

“What?”

“About the Swiss. Nestlé is a Swiss chocolate maker, right?”

“Yeah. They make Nestlé Crunch bars and I think that Coffee-mate creamer stuff.”

“Right, those are a couple of the products we have here in the States, but what about in Europe?”

“In Switzerland, they make tons of different products. They make chocolate, but they also make things like baby food.”

“Let’s stick with the chocolate.”

“Fine, from what I saw in Switzerland, there were lots of different varieties of Nestlé chocolate.”

“And if they were going to import, or try a particular brand here in the U.S., they would probably give the chocolate a name in English, right?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Take something like Toblerone or Baci, neither of them changed their names when they exported to the U.S. from Europe. But those are one of those deals where the European company has built its entire identity around that one brand. The identity is the name of the chocolate, so they don’t change it. If there were a Nestlé product that was kind of known in Switzerland, but not super famous, I think they would have their marketing people here come up with a new name for it. Let’s face it, the U.S. market for fine chocolate with foreign-sounding names has got to be a lot smaller than the market for something like Snickers.”

“That’s a good point.”

“Hey, I didn’t get to where I am by being stupid,” said Palmer with another warm smile. “I’m beginning to worry about you, though. Let’s get off this chocolate subject. I’m sure Nestlé has a web site. It’ll either be a dot-com or a dot-Ch, for Switzerland.”

“Thanks, Palmer. I appreciate it,” said Scot, standing to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I haven’t had anything to eat since that wonderful breakfast you cooked me this morning. I was thinking about walking down to the restaurant at the Silver Lake Lodge to grab a bowl of chili.”

“Want some company? I could probably take my break a little early.”

“No, thanks anyway. I need to be alone and get some things straight.”

“I understand. Stick your head in when you get back.”

“Okay.”

Scot quickly shut the door of the Winnebago behind him, so as not to let too much cold air in and piss off the other agents inside. As he reached the bottom step, he heard the door open behind him.

Palmer peeked her head around the door. “There was one other thing. There might not be a connection, but an ambulance was found abandoned on the west side of the valley over by the Kennecot Copper Mine.”

“Really? Had it been reported stolen?”

“No, the report didn’t come in until after it was discovered.”

“Where was it stolen from?”

Responding to the shouts of the agents inside, Palmer closed the door behind her and walked down the stairs to where Scot was standing.

“It was stolen from a mechanic’s shop called Grunnah Automotive. Apparently, Mr. Grunnah had towed the ambulance in on Saturday-”

“Towed? What was wrong with it?”

“There was a problem with the brake line, so Mr. Grunnah towed it into his garage Saturday afternoon and told the ambulance company he wouldn’t be able to get to it until Monday. He was closed Sunday and claims that it must have been stolen between when he closed Saturday night and when he opened up again this morning.”

“How does somebody drive an ambulance that was in such bad shape it had to be towed to the mechanic’s in the first place?”

“Mr. Grunnah says it was fixed.”

“Fixed? I thought you said Grunnah told the ambulance company he couldn’t get to it until Monday.”

“That’s exactly right. Grunnah says whoever stole it fixed it first.”

“Seems like a lot of work to go through for a joyride,” said Scot.

“For a joyride, yes. But, it’s not a lot of work if you want a getaway vehicle that you can drive as fast as you want with no risk of being stopped by the police.”

“I’m sure the FBI will come to the same conclusion. Thanks for the update.”

Palmer turned and went back to the Winnebago as Scot made his way up the driveway toward the security gate and the main road down to the lodge. Passing through, he saw an ambulance parked adjacent to the driveway. Scot had never noticed before, but the body of the ambulance was very similar to a truck’s, with a high shell over the bed. Looking down, he saw that while the tires in front were singles, the ones in back had been doubled to bear the extra weight.

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, but the picture was still no closer to being complete.