a pleasure chatting with you,” said Harvath as he climbed out of the taxi. Once his passenger was on the pavement, the driver flipped a switch beneath the dash and the door automatically slammed shut.
Neat trick, thought Harvath as the cab sped away down the street.
When he entered the store, a small brass bell above the door announced Harvath’s arrival. He waited a beat, and when no one appeared, began to look around the dimly lit room. It was packed with tapestries, furniture, and no end of faded bric-a-brac.
When he neared a narrow mahogany door, a series of small bulbs in a brass plaque changed from red to green and the door clicked open.
Another neat trick, Harvath thought as he pulled the door toward him to reveal a small, wood-paneled elevator. Once inside, he waited for the door to close on its own, which it did, and then the elevator slowly started to rise. He waited a second for elevator music to kick in and when it didn’t, he started humming “The Girl from Ipanema” to himself.
He was still humming when the elevator stopped and the door opened onto a long hallway, its floor covered by an intricately patterned oriental runner. The walls were painted a deep forest green and were lined with framed prints of foxhunting, fly-fishing, and crumbling abbeys. As Scot walked forward, he noticed infrared sensors placed every few feet and guessed that there were probably pressure sensitive plates beneath the runner. This was one man who took his security precautions very seriously.
At the end of the hall, Scot found himself in a very large room, more dimly lit than the shop downstairs. It was paneled from floor to ceiling, like the elevator, with a rich, deeply colored wood. With its fireplace, billiards table, overstuffed leather chairs and couches, it felt more like a British gentleman’s club than the upper-floor office of a shop in West Jerusalem.
“I apologize for the subterfuge, Mr. Harvath,” came Schoen’s voice from the far corner of the room.
Harvath peered through the semidarkness and could barely make him out. He was sitting near a pair of heavy silk draperies, which had been drawn tight against the windows.
“There are certain people who, if they knew I was still alive, would very much want me dead. So, I do what I have to do,” he continued. “I would be happy to bring the lights up a little, but I want to warn you that you may find my appearance a bit difficult.”
“I think I can handle it,” replied Harvath.
“Lights!” commanded Schoen, and the light level in the room slowly began to increase until he said, “Enough.”
Harvath’s eyes were now able to see that the man was sitting in a wheelchair. As Schoen rolled himself closer, Scot could see that the man’s hands, face, and neck had been terribly burned. Even though Harvath was slightly taken aback by his appearance, he did not allow his face to show what he was feeling.
Schoen’s suit was navy blue, and he wore a white shirt with a British regimental tie. A blue-and-green tartan blanket lay across his legs. Now that he saw the man in person, Harvath realized that his lisp sprang from the fact that a good part of his lips had been burned away from his face.
“Please, Mr. Harvath. Take a seat.” Pleeth, Mr. Harvath…
“Thank you,” Scot replied as he sat down in one of the oxblood leather club chairs and glanced at the silver-framed photographs the man had positioned on an adjacent console table.
“Are you a whiskey man, Mr. Harvath?”
“Scotch whiskey, yes.”
“A man after my own heart.”
Schoen wheeled himself over to an antique globe and lifted the hinged northern hemisphere. He retrieved two glasses and a bottle, placed them on a tray across the arms of his wheelchair, and wheeled himself back over next to the chair Harvath was sitting in.
“Nineteen sixty-three Black Bowmore,” he said as he placed the tray on the small end table between them. “Look at that color, Mr. Harvath. Black as pitch, as
Neat trick, thought Harvath as the cab sped away down the street.
When he entered the store, a small brass bell above the door announced Harvath’s arrival. He waited a beat, and when no one appeared, began to look around the dimly lit room. It was packed with tapestries, furniture, and no end of faded bric-a-brac.
When he neared a narrow mahogany door, a series of small bulbs in a brass plaque changed from red to green and the door clicked open.
Another neat trick, Harvath thought as he pulled the door toward him to reveal a small, wood-paneled elevator. Once inside, he waited for the door to close on its own, which it did, and then the elevator slowly started to rise. He waited a second for elevator music to kick in and when it didn’t, he started humming “The Girl from Ipanema” to himself.
He was still humming when the elevator stopped and the door opened onto a long hallway, its floor covered by an intricately patterned oriental runner. The walls were painted a deep forest green and were lined with framed prints of foxhunting, fly-fishing, and crumbling abbeys. As Scot walked forward, he noticed infrared sensors placed every few feet and guessed that there were probably pressure sensitive plates beneath the runner. This was one man who took his security precautions very seriously.
At the end of the hall, Scot found himself in a very large room, more dimly lit than the shop downstairs. It was paneled from floor to ceiling, like the elevator, with a rich, deeply colored wood. With its fireplace, billiards table, overstuffed leather chairs and couches, it felt more like a British gentleman’s club than the upper-floor office of a shop in West Jerusalem.
“I apologize for the subterfuge, Mr. Harvath,” came Schoen’s voice from the far corner of the room.
Harvath peered through the semidarkness and could barely make him out. He was sitting near a pair of heavy silk draperies, which had been drawn tight against the windows.
“There are certain people who, if they knew I was still alive, would very much want me dead. So, I do what I have to do,” he continued. “I would be happy to bring the lights up a little, but I want to warn you that you may find my appearance a bit difficult.”
“I think I can handle it,” replied Harvath.
“Lights!” commanded Schoen, and the light level in the room slowly began to increase until he said, “Enough.”
Harvath’s eyes were now able to see that the man was sitting in a wheelchair. As Schoen rolled himself closer, Scot could see that the man’s hands, face, and neck had been terribly burned. Even though Harvath was slightly taken aback by his appearance, he did not allow his face to show what he was feeling.
Schoen’s suit was navy blue, and he wore a white shirt with a British regimental tie. A blue-and-green tartan blanket lay across his legs. Now that he saw the man in person, Harvath realized that his lisp sprang from the fact that a good part of his lips had been burned away from his face.
“Please, Mr. Harvath. Take a seat.” Pleeth, Mr. Harvath…
“Thank you,” Scot replied as he sat down in one of the oxblood leather club chairs and glanced at the silver-framed photographs the man had positioned on an adjacent console table.
“Are you a whiskey man, Mr. Harvath?”
“Scotch whiskey, yes.”
“A man after my own heart.”
Schoen wheeled himself over to an antique globe and lifted the hinged northern hemisphere. He retrieved two glasses and a bottle, placed them on a tray across the arms of his wheelchair, and wheeled himself back over next to the chair Harvath was sitting in.
“Nineteen sixty-three Black Bowmore,” he said as he placed the tray on the small end table between them. “Look at that color, Mr. Harvath. Black as pitch, as
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