Near Dark (Scot Harvath #20) - Brad Thor Page 0,46

debrief and had let Levi conduct a more personal review. The moment the shrink had begun asking about Harvath’s feelings over losing his wife, Harvath had colorfully instructed him to take one very large step back.

He wasn’t interested in having his feelings explored. What’s more, he worked for The Carlton Group, not the CIA. Levi, beyond the national security implications of his capture, didn’t have the standing to analyze him. He wasn’t applying for a job with the CIA. If and when he ever did, they could run him through the psychological wringer then.

Levi was an interesting duck. In a clinical, debrief setting, he was all business—super professional, attuned to every detail. Nothing escaped him and he took copious notes. But when you caught him in a more relaxed setting, he seemed able to only speak one of two languages—cars or golf.

Dressed in a polo shirt and madras Bermuda shorts, he leaned nonchalantly on his graphite club, pulling a glove onto his right hand. “A hundred bucks says I’m in the cup in two.”

This fucking guy, Harvath thought. This was a part of the modern intelligence world that he really disliked. Access to mental health professionals was a good thing. Having them forced upon you, though—no matter how casual the setting—was something entirely different.

The last time Levi had tried to crawl inside his head, he had been sitting on the dock of the aforementioned safe house, minding his own business, when the shrink had materialized, dragging a cooler full of booze. It had been his attempt at bonding, in the hopes that Harvath would open up. But after a couple of drinks, Levi had left, disappointed.

Harvath just wasn’t a talker—especially about his feelings. What he was, was a survivor. And in his line of work, you survived by being able to wall yourself off from your feelings; to put unpleasant or uncomfortable things in a box and lock them away. Feelings were distractions and being distracted could get you, or worse, others, killed.

Just off the tee were two golf bags. One was very high-end and obviously belonged to Levi. The other was one of the “loaners” Camp David kept for visiting dignitaries. The fact that the doc had not only had the foresight, but also the self-assuredness, to bring along his own sticks said a lot about him.

His glove in place, Levi leaned over, pressed a tee into the ground, and placed a ball atop it. Straightening up, he gestured toward the guest bag and said, “I thought we’d get a little exercise and have a chat.”

In Harvath’s world, golf wasn’t “exercise.” It wasn’t even close, and especially not on a one-hole course. “How about we go for a run instead?” he offered, knowing the shrink wouldn’t bite. Levi was more of the “gentleman’s triathlon” type—sauna, steam, and then shower.

“Didn’t bring my running gear,” the man replied. “Go grab a club. We’ll see who gets closest to the pin.”

Harvath wasn’t interested. “I’m good,” he said. “You go ahead.”

Levi shrugged and, after taking a couple practice swings, asked, “You know what the difference between golf and government is?”

“No. What is it?”

“In government, you can always improve your lie.”

Harvath smiled. It was funny, even more so coming from someone who worked for the government and whose job it was to get to the truth.

“Now watch this drive,” said Levi, quoting an infamous line George W. Bush had given right after delivering a serious statement to the press on terrorism.

Drawing the club back, he swung straight down and through the ball. There was a resounding thwack and the ball went sailing into the air. The two men then watched as it dropped three feet from the hole.

“Drive for show,” said Levi, “and putt for dough. Let me switch clubs and we’ll walk to the green.”

“Is this the exercise part? Because maybe I should stretch first,” Harvath deadpanned. The green was only 140 yards away.

Levi looked at him and then, removing a pencil and scorecard from his bag, pretended to make a note on the back. “Subject’s sense of humor appears intact,” he said to himself, but loud enough so that Harvath could hear.

“What are you doing here, Joe?”

“Working on my game.”

Harvath smiled. “I think you’re here to work on my game.”

“That depends,” Levi replied, smiling back, as he tucked the card and pencil into his pocket. “Does your game need work?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Then we’re just two guys out strolling the world’s most exclusive golf course.”

Slipping his driver back into the bag, Levi selected his