putter and headed for the green. Harvath accompanied him.
“I understand you were down in Florida for a while,” the doctor said. “How was it?”
“Warm.”
“I heard you got kicked out of a hotel for slugging a guest in the bar. Would you like to talk about that?”
“Not really.”
“How about when your team found you? You were outside another bar, this time fighting with not one, but two men. Why don’t we talk about that?”
“Sorry, Joe, I’m not interested.”
“In talking about Florida?”
“In talking about anything,” said Harvath.
Levi changed direction. “What do you think about McLarens?”
“The sports cars?”
“Yeah, particularly the 720S Spider.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m thinking about getting one.”
Harvath didn’t want to laugh, but he couldn’t hold it in. “You’re a psychiatrist employed by the CIA. Those cars cost hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“And?”
“And, I think if you rolled up to Langley driving one of those, they’d think you were crazy, on the take, or maybe both.”
“So not a good idea?” the doctor asked.
Harvath shook his head, the smile lingering on his face. “There’d be an investigation opened before you even reached the lobby.”
“Lower my sights then?”
“Just a little.”
Levi nodded as he pretended to reflect upon Harvath’s advice and they walked on.
A few moments later, he asked, “Do you remember the last time we saw each other?”
This time it was Harvath who nodded. “On the Eastern Shore. Right after I got back.”
“Correct. Do you remember what I said to you?”
“We were in that safe house for days. A lot was said.”
Levi shook his head. “No. Out on the dock. Right before I left.”
“Not really.”
It was a lie, but Harvath had meant it when he had said he didn’t feel like talking.
“I spoke about the trauma you had been through. Not just the physical, but the emotional and psychological trauma as well. Those were what I was most worried about—and I told you that, in my experience, people who had suffered like you went in one of two directions. They either allowed themselves to grieve and heal, thereby coming out stronger, or they gave up, turned to substance abuse, and often ended up committing suicide.”
It was now Harvath’s turn to pretend as if he were reflecting. Finally, he said, “Don’t remember that part.”
Levi knew that was a lie. He also knew, just by looking at him, that Harvath knew it as well.
“The last thing I said to you,” the shrink stated, “was that I was positive you could come back stronger, but that it had to be your choice. You had to want it badly enough to do the work.”
“Maybe I don’t want it badly enough.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe whatever you want,” said Harvath. “It’s not my problem.”
They were now halfway to the green and Levi stopped. “Tell me what happened in Florida.”
He was pissing Harvath off. “For fuck’s sake,” he replied. “Let it go.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“What I know, is that you work for the CIA and I don’t. Therefore, you have no authority over me.”
“Scot—”
Harvath held up his hand and cut him off. “This isn’t happening. I’m not interested in being analyzed.”
Levi was about to respond when a golf cart pulled off the path and sped toward them. Harvath recognized Lance Corporal Garcia behind the wheel.
“You’re wanted back at Laurel,” she said, coming to a stop next to him.
“Now?”
“Right away.”
Harvath looked at Levi as he climbed into the cart. “A hundred bucks says you miss that putt.”
Feigning disapproval, the doctor removed the scorecard and pencil from his pocket, and pretended to make another note. “Since last session, subject also seems to have developed a distinctly sadistic streak.”
Harvath made a finger gun, pretended to shoot the doc in each knee, and then gestured for Garcia to move out.
CHAPTER 18
Nicholas was where Harvath had left him, sitting behind his laptop in the conference room. Lawlor was nowhere to be seen.
As the dogs rose to greet him, Harvath showed them a little attention and then asked, “What do you have?”
“I think I found your truck driver.”
“The Lithuanian?”
Nicholas nodded. “Apparently, he had a somewhat nasty accident. Except nobody thinks it was an accident.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, he’s alive, but pretty banged up.”
The little man turned his laptop around so Harvath could get a look at the screen. It showed a man with two black eyes, a fat lip, and a nose that appeared as if it had been broken. “Is this your guy?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Harvath replied. “What happened? Where’d you get that photo?”
“The Lithuanian state health database. All medical records in the country are electronic. According