State Of The Union

“Really?” said Harvath remembering what Defense Secretary Hilliman had told him toward the end of their meeting when he remarked on how Gary and Frank Leighton had the same numbered beer steins in their houses. “Because they way I heard it, the team members had all taken turns sneaking up onto the wall at night to snip their own authentic piece of history. How’d you get the barbed wire on your mug? Did you slip on your night vision goggles one evening and scale the wall praying that the East German border guards wouldn’t see you and open fire? Something tells me you didn’t. Somebody else risked their life to get it for you. On the back of the mug where it talks aboutFür die Sicherheit, For the Security, that was their unit motto. What security did you help to protect?”

Leydicke was silent. Harvath knew he had hit the nail right on the head. “Listen,” he continued, “we need to talk. Most of those men you knew are dead, and not from old age either. Someone has killed them. There are only two left and I don’t want to see anything happen to them.”

After several moments, Leydicke relented and said, “Let me lock up and we’ll talk.”

The bar closed for the evening, Hellfried Leydicke set a tray of food along with threelarge Bären Pils beers on the table in his office.

“I don’t understand any of this,” said Harvath as he reached for one of the beers. “Gary just arrived on your doorstep two days ago, dropped his bags and said he’d be back in a little while? That was it?”

“More or less,” responded Leydicke. “We hadn’t seen each other in years, but I could tell that something was wrong.”

“Why is that?”

“After all this time, he didn’t ask any questions about the family, how business had been-you know, no chitchat.”

“Did he say anything at all about what he was up to or where he was going?”

“No, he simply asked if he could leave his bag here and that he was going to be back later.”

“But he never came back?” asked Harvath.

“No, he didn’t.”

Scot set his beer down and began to look through Gary Lawlor’s suitcase. After several moments, he pulled a sleek black device that looked like the old Apple PDA known as the Newton out of the bag.

“What’s that?” asked Herman.

“It looks like an oversized handheld computer,” replied Harvath, flipping open the cover and powering it up. “One of the early ones from the eighties.”

“Your friend doesn’t keep too up-to-date on his technology, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t. In fact he hates computers. He always gives me shit for the Ipaq I carry. He says that if it ever goes on the fritz, I’ll be screwed. He never would have owned something like this. He still carries around a paper Day-Timer scheduler. It’s as thick as a phone book. This PDA doesn’t fit his personality.”

“Have you looked through the programs on it? Anything interesting?”

“Not really,” said Harvath as he scrolled through. “He’s got a contact database-”

“Any listings in Berlin?”

“None that I can see. The appointments, the To Do list-they’re all pretty innocuous,” he answered, convinced now more than ever that the PDA was something other than it appeared.”

“It must have been part of his cover,” said Herman.

Harvath powered down the unit and asked Leydicke, “Has Gary gotten any deliveries here, Hellfried? Maybe somebody stopped by looking for him?”

“Nobody has been here looking for him,” replied Leydicke, “but there have been a few phone calls over the last two days.”

“Phone calls?” said Harvath. “From whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did the person say?”

“It was a code, something the team used to use years ago,” he answered. “For security reasons, there were never supposed to be more than four of them in the same public place at one time, but they always disregarded the rule and came here to drink together. If they wanted to know if any of their teammates were in the bar, they would call up and ask if Alice was here. Like in the song.”

“You mean as in, ‘Alice? Alice? Who the f-’ ” began Herman.

“Yes,” said Leydicke, cutting him off. “The Smokie song from the seventies.”

“I don’t get it,” replied Harvath. “What’s this song?”

“It was originally a polka tune, but it got remade as a pop song,” said Herman. “After the singer sings, ‘ ’cause for twenty-four years I’ve been living next door to Alice,’ everybody in the bar, the nightclub, wherever, would respond, ‘Alice? Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?’ Even if you were alone in your car, you still shouted it out.”

“It was a popular joke at the time,” added Hellfried. “If none of the guys were here and someone called and asked for Alice, I’d say Alice doesn’t live here anymore. And if any of the guys were here, I’d answer-”

“Alice? Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?” said Herman with a smile, obviously anxious to finish the phrase.

“Cute,” said Harvath. “What does this have to do with these phone calls for Gary?”

“That’s just it,” said Leydicke. “After his team was sent back to the States, I never received anymore calls like that. It was their special code. Now all of a sudden, I’m getting several calls a day asking for Alice.”