State Of The Union

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 connection to Herman on the drive over, Harvath said, “Flip it over. Gary’s team consisted of twelve guys. Each man was given a custom-made mug just like that one. On the bottom was a number out of twelve. What does Herr Leydicke’s have?”

“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.